Fate or Fortune
by holly1492
Summary: It dawned on him gradually—he was absolutely fascinated with this muggle girl. A complete stranger. He reminded himself a bloke's brain will do that on a long stakeout. Play tricks on him, it will. Make him think about things he shouldn't. All he knew was, he hoped to see her again. But then what? A very AU Romione tale. Lemons ahead!
1. Chapter 1

_Hello there, fellow Romione lovers!_

 _In this story, I'm riffing on an idea that isn't mine originally. The chapter you're about to read is inspired by one of my favorite Romione fics — one of the first that I read a few years ago when I got into fan fiction in a big way. That story is called "The Other Side of Life" by a wonderful writer named kjc1123. kjc is perhaps better known for a different Romione tale — the deservedly revered "The Time In Between" — but I've always had a soft spot for "TOSOL" because it plays with an idea that I find quite intriguing: How would Ron and Hermione's relationship develop if they hadn't known each other as children? kjc's original is a charming and totally absorbing story. If you haven't read it, go and check it out right now._

 _My goal here is not to mimic kjc's story step-by-step but rather to improvise on the themes that are suggested there. I'm mostly interested in the relationship between these two characters and therefore probably will not be spending a lot of energy creating an adventure-driven plot in which their romance will evolve. Action and mystery aren't really my thing as a writer, though I enjoyed those plot twists in "TOSOL" as a reader. My style as a fic writer is to zero in very closely on the emotional connection between these two beloved characters, and I find endless inspiration in putting them in different situations and imagining how they would behave. In this case, I'm exploring a theme that I've seen elsewhere in fandom — Hermione as muggle or Hermione as non-Hogwarts student — but I am taking inspiration from kjc's opening chapter as well as a few later scenes because her original really charmed me when I first read it. (I also owe a psychic debt to the wonderful but unfinished Hermione-as-outsider story "Impedimenta," by my first friend in the fanfic world, jesrod82.)  
_

 _The opening chapter in this version starts in the same place as kjc1123's story does because, frankly, that was the chapter of her work that first captivated me, and I thought it was a brilliant set-up. This first scene will look familiar to you, but I plan to regard it as a jumping-off point and plan to fill in later details in ways that kjc didn't. After Chapter 1, I intend to take the story in a different direction._

 _I reached out to kjc1123 before I began writing to let her know that I was considering doing this, but I never heard back. I hope that if she ever does see this work, she'll take it as an homage, which is really what's intended. As I did with "The Way We Will Be" (a sequel to ermynee322's wonderful "Making Memories"), I'm feeling a pang of guilt for toying with another writer's original idea. But it's worth remembering that we're all improvising on the great JKR's imaginings anyway, so it seems silly to get too proprietary about any of it.  
_

 _For those who are wondering when the heck I'm going to finish "The Way We Will Be" (hello, chemrunner57!), don't worry — I'm mulling over a good ending. Hopefully this tale will entertain you in the meantime._

 _As always, thanks for reading, stay tuned for future chapters, and please share your constructive feedback in the review section!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._

oooOOOooo

 **Chapter 1**

It dawned on him gradually — he was absolutely, completely, stupidly fascinated with this muggle girl. A complete stranger. He'd actually started to play games with himself over the past few days, trying to guess what she'd be wearing the next time he saw her. Would she have on that tight little pink cardigan again? He hoped so. Or maybe the slim black skirt she wore last week with the black leggings. Yeah, that was nice.

He reminded himself a bloke's brain will do that on a long stakeout. Play tricks on him, it will. Make him think about things he shouldn't. He should be thinking about the suspect he'd been tailing, and what was at stake if he let himself get distracted by a pretty face in the middle of an investigation.

Even so, he was looking forward to seeing her, felt almost as if he knew her. After all, she'd shown up quite reliably at that very tea shop across the street every morning, promptly at 7 a.m. Her order — a cup of tea and a scone — never varied, he'd come to notice. And she always chose to sit on a stool right by the front window, soaking up a bit of the morning sun as she read her newspaper before shuffling away some 15 minutes later or so toward an unknown destination.

He was a professional — should have had his mind on other things, surely — but, looking at her from outside the shop every day since his stakeout began ten days earlier, he couldn't help pondering how lovely she was, with her chestnut-colored curls hanging down about her shoulders and framing her cheeks. He mentally shook himself, not for the first time since noticing her that first morning: He'd never had a thing for brunettes before, had he? The witches who gravitated to him — and they did gravitate, his war-hero status having done wonders for his sex life — tended to be the leggy blonde type. But this girl was positively petite, with skin the color of light caramel or maybe tea with lots of milk …

He cursed himself again for pondering such bollocks as what her complexion looked like and laughed, knowing how mad he might appear to the muggles passing by — a long-legged, ginger-haired eedjit cackling to himself on a park bench in the middle of Sevenoaks. He had to concentrate, dammit. This is a stakeout, he told himself, not a ruddy beauty pageant. The entire Auror Corps would give him the mickey for sure if they knew what was in his head just then — and he shuddered involuntarily at the thought of what his boss, Brocklehurst, would say.

And yet, he cast a furtive glance at his wristwatch. It was coming up on 7:08. Where was she?

To his mild relief, she came bustling around the corner just then, nearly running, and dodged a pedestrian or two as she hurried into the tea shop, the bell above the door tinkling brightly with her entry. He smiled to himself. The pink cardigan and the black skirt. Today was going to be a good day.

He stretched his legs out before him as he waited for her to place her order and re-emerge into view, draping his arms over the back of the park bench and thanking Merlin that no one in this heavily muggle neighborhood had noticed him furtively cast a Cushioning charm on the seat when he'd arrived for his shift at 6 a.m. He tapped impatiently on the wooden plank beneath his fingers, shooting a quick glance toward the doorway next to the tea shop to be sure his official quarry hadn't shown himself. No sign of life there. Good.

Soon, the curly-haired girl stepped into the sunshine filtering into the shop window and took her customary seat, though clearly she was hurried this morning. Her curls appeared a bit damp, and she shuffled quickly through her newspaper, her cheeks slightly pink from what he guessed was the exertion of getting to wherever it is she would eventually go on time. His expression, which had melted into an absent-minded grin at the sight of her, turned sour as he fleetingly pondered what might have interfered with her usual clock-like timing that morning. A lover who demanded an extra roll in the hay before work, perhaps? He hardly had time to think about it when a flash of movement in the window snapped him from his reverie: She was checking her watch, folding her newspaper hastily and cramming it into her briefcase while dashing toward the tea shop door at a near run, a steaming paper cup full of tea balanced in her hand.

The tinkling of the bells reached his ears again as she exited the shop, and then a loud "oof" as she collided at full speed with a gray-haired but sturdy-looking woman walking a large, drooling hunting dog of some sort. The distance was too great to hear the conversation that followed, but it was clear that the girl was apologizing profusely and, judging by the charmed grin on her face, the dog-walker wasn't terribly arsed about it, perhaps because the girl in the pink cardigan had come out the worse for their collision. She'd spilt tea all over herself.

After a few more nods and reassurances, the girl bid the older woman adieu and moved along, looking down at her sweater with a furrowed brow before glancing right, then left, and then ducking into the alleyway next to the shop.

And there, much to the surprise of the only person who happened to be able to see her do it … well, it happened in a flash. A wand. The girl had a wand! She pulled it out and performed a quick Drying charm, glancing around guiltily yet again as the spot on her cardigan disappeared. And then, just as quickly, the girl had stashed her wand in her briefcase and was on her way again, hurrying off in the direction she normally went each morning.

A witch! The girl was a witch. Merlin's mismatched balls!

As he watched her hurry around the corner and out of sight, he shook his head in disbelief. She looked to be about his age, and yet he had absolutely no recollection of her from his Hogwarts days. He racked his mind, thinking of all the girls who'd been in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw and — blech — even Slytherin, but she looked like none of them. Could she have gone to Beauxbatons? He wondered whether he could ask his sister-in-law, but then he kicked himself again. "So, Fleur, did you know any curly-haired girls at school?" He could just imagine the smirk she would give him at such a daft question. Oh well, nothing to be done for it. He'd just have to wait … and hope that he'd see her again.

oooOOOooo

 _Please offer your constructive reactions and, if you like this, please share it with friends!  
_

 _Holly._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Hermione stood just slightly apart from the rest of the group, hoping she didn't look as nervous as she felt. Dean had been so insistent that she come — arguing that it was high time she learned more about her wizarding heritage and mingled with some magical people — and, good friend that he was, he'd done his best to make her feel included, introducing her to classmates like the Patil twins, a lovely girl named Luna, and a tall, gangly and friendly bloke named Neville. They all seemed so sweet and were clearly so close to one another, and Dean was glad they'd embraced his childhood friend Hermione and made her feel welcome. He was aware that a class reunion for a school she didn't even attend was bound to be a bit awkward for Hermione. But even an attentive buddy like Dean couldn't help but get caught up in the reminiscing and carrying on at an event like this, and she occasionally found herself at a loss for conversation. She adjusted the strap of the white sundress she was wearing beneath her pink cardigan a bit anxiously, hoping for the hundredth time that night that she wasn't over-dressed, and cast her eyes about the crowded pub, which contained an assortment of some of the most colorful characters she'd ever seen. The room was lit entirely by firelight — candles, lanterns and a roaring hearth — something Hermione wasn't quite used to, but it gave the low-ceilinged pub a warm glow that she quite liked. The music was lively and, in the far corner of the room, a dance floor of sorts had formed and couples swayed there to the music.

"So, are you and Dean dating?" said a soft voice, and Hermione turned to see the warm face of one of the Patils — she was fairly sure it was Padma — smiling up at her as she handed Hermione a fresh butterbeer.

Hermione gave her an appreciative nod and then chuckled as they clinked their glasses together. "Cheers," Hermione said before taking a sip. "And no, no, not at all," she continued. "Dean and I are not and never have been romantically involved. Don't get me wrong! I'm not saying Dean isn't fanciable. He is."

"Totally," said Padma. "I can't believe he's still single, honestly."

"I agree," said Hermione conspiratorially, drawing a little laugh from Padma. "But for me, dating Dean would simply be all sorts of wrong. It's always been just platonic between us. We've been mates since we were in primary school together."

"He's a great guy, and he always spoke highly of you. I understand you two grew up in the same street, though I—"

Before Padma could finish her thought, a freckle-faced bloke strode up behind her, swiftly covering Padma's eyes with his hands before Hermione had a chance to react. "Hey, Patil. Guess who?" the interloper nearly shouted in her ear.

Padma grimaced. "Well hellooooooo, Seamus," she drawled, "I knew we'd run into one another sooner or later."

Seamus laughed triumphantly and pulled Padma into a bear hug. "You never could resist me, could you, darling?" Seamus said in his near-shout. As he and Padma separated, Hermione was surprised to see a wide grin on Padma's face. She looked to Hermione and rolled her eyes. "Don't mind Seamus, Hermione — he's insufferable but we all love him anyways."

That remark drew Seamus's attention to Hermione, and she felt her cheeks redden as he stood back and gave her an appraising, up-and-down look. "Well, well, well, did you say 'Hermione,' Padma?" Seamus said through a smile that looked to Hermione to be just shy of a lustful leer. "My dear Miss Granger, I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance," Seamus continued, ignoring Padma's snort of laughter. Seamus nudged Padma's ribs roughly with his elbow before reaching out, taking Hermione's hand, and lifting it to his lips. Straightening up, he added, "Seamus Finnegan, at your service," with a silly little bow and a cock-eyed grin and Hermione couldn't help but find amusing despite herself. "Dean always told me his childhood chum was smart and charming," Seamus added, taking a half step closer to Hermione, who had been stunned into a rare silence, "but he neglected to mention that said chum is also drop-dead gorgeous."

This was too much for Padma, who reared back and kicked Seamus playfully in the shin, which Seamus milked for dramatic effect, stooping down and rubbing his leg theatrically. "Oi, Patil, don't worry — you're gorgeous, too!" he barked, causing Padma to dissolve into peals of laughter.

Hermione could barely contain her amusement at the scene before her. These people were all her age — about 25 or so, by her reckoning — and yet, they were clearly so close, having grown up together, not to mention fighting together in a war against the Darkest forces ever arrayed among wizardkind. She'd read some of the war story in various wizarding press accounts over the years, but meeting these people, and realizing she could have been one of them, truly one of them, if only her parents had allowed it … well, it stung a bit, and she felt a pang of longing at the thought.

Her sad musings were interrupted by Neville, who strode over from the bar, chewing on a pretzel, and asked no one in particular, "Where's Harry and Ginny?"

"Should be here any minute," Padma answered, "though I hear Ron's going to be a little late. Closing a case. I saw him when I clocked out at the Ministry a few hours ago."

"It's always work with Weasley," Seamus said as he downed a Firewhiskey. "Work and Quidditch."

"With you it's just Quidditch, minus the work, eh Seamus?" said Neville slyly.

"Something like that," Seamus replied with a grin. "Speaking of that, did you guys catch that last match at Puddlemere?"

As the Quidditch talk swirled around her, Hermione's mind wandered again. She was certainly aware without being told that the "Harry" Neville had asked about was none other than Harry Potter. Even though she'd been denied access to the wizarding world as a child, she was familiar enough with the goings-on via Dean's visits and letters over the years to know that Harry was the so-called Chosen One, and she reckoned she'd know him by sight from the few stories she'd read about him the Daily Prophet. Ron Weasley's name was familiar, too, though she didn't know as much about him as she did about Harry, and she doubted she'd recognize him on sight. Her eyes roved the crowd again. She caught sight of Dean across the bar talking to the dreamy-eyed blonde-haired girl named Luna as well as a few others she hadn't met yet. Dean gave her a wink and she smiled back, tipping her glass to him. Her attention at that moment was drawn to a cluster of people by the door who were making quite a ruckus. As the crowd parted slightly, she saw that Harry Potter had indeed arrived, accompanied by a beautiful young woman with long hair of the deepest and most coppery shade of red she had ever seen. That, Hermione reasoned, must be Ginny. She and Harry were milling through the crowd hand-in-hand, being greeted enthusiastically by everyone nearby.

"Oi, Harry," Neville shouted with a wave, drawing Harry's eyes toward their little group. Harry smiled widely and began to slowly wind his way through the throng in their direction, Ginny's hand still clutched tightly in his. Hermione felt a bit nervous at the thought of meeting him and was just thinking about what she might say when Padma spoke up.

"Oh, looks like Ron's here, too," Padma said, tipping her head toward the door.

Hermione followed her gaze and gasped — so loudly that she was thankful the scene was so raucous, or she was sure Padma would have heard her reaction.

There, standing by the doorway and engaged in an animated conversation with a small crowd of well-wishers, was a tall, broad-shouldered man whose hair was the same flaming red as Ginny's. He stood at least a head above everyone in his vicinity — so tall, in fact, that it appeared from Hermione's vantage point that his head nearly reached the ceiling, though she was sure that couldn't literally be true. She couldn't explain why exactly he had taken her breath away but he had. She couldn't shake the feeling that she'd seen him somewhere before. At that moment, he tossed his head back and laughed heartily, an open-mouthed grin lighting his face, and Hermione felt her chest constrict again, her breath hitching in her throat. Her ears were buzzing, and though she was dimly aware that she was openly staring at him, she couldn't tear her eyes away. She was utterly dumbstruck.

That's when, to her horror and utter embarrassment, he turned in her direction and, quite accidentally, it would seem, locked eyes on her, catching her as she shamelessly gaped at him. But she didn't look away — she simply couldn't. Instead, she merely pressed her lips shut and studied his face, which she had previously only seen in profile. He had a long, straight nose, pink lips, milky white skin spattered with freckles, and even from this distance she could tell his eyes were a deep and penetrating blue. His jawline was square and strong, his neck muscular. She saw his Adam's apple ripple as he swallowed down his startlement — because he did indeed look startled to see her, though she had no idea why that would be so. His features, so symmetrical, so chiseled, melted from astonishment into something like a smile — a crooked, half-smile that she felt warming up her own face. Was she smiling back at him? Yes, she realized she was.

oooOOOooo

 _A/N — Please share your constructive feedback in the comments section. And thanks for reading!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He was being rude. He knew it. Oliver Wood had been saying something to him and Dennis Creevey — talking rubbish about the Cannons, as usual — and he was about to fire off a retort about Puddlemere when, at that moment, he'd turned his head absent-mindedly and there … in the midst of a swirling crowd of Hogwarts alumni … she stood. Looking right at him. He had to blink a few times to be sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. But no. She was there. It was her. Her and the little pink cardigan. The Tea Shop Girl. His heart skipped several beats as his brain caught up with his eyes. He hadn't seen her in a few days — three to be exact, not that he would admit to himself that he was counting. The case that had brought him to that park bench in Sevenoaks was closed after all — they'd got their man — and he'd seriously considered plopping himself down on that ruddy bench for the past few mornings just for the opportunity to see her, but he'd decided that would be a bit weird and maybe even a violation of some sort of Auror Consolidated Handbook rules, though as the days went by his resolve on that point was beginning to crumble. He'd missed her.

He drew in a deep breath of air through his nostrils — a clue that he'd forgotten to breathe for the last several seconds. Somewhere in the background of his thoughts, he could hear Oliver and Dennis still prattling on about the new overtime rules and how they were going to completely mess with Falmouth's chances to get into the playoffs, but the sound of their jabbering was muffled by the buzzing in his ears. He blinked again and swallowed hard. He wondered fleetingly, ridiculously, if maybe he was having some sort of a waking dream — he'd heard of such things, and he'd seen enough crazy-ass shite in his lifetime to make him think it was possible. And the sight of her — quite separate and alone despite the mass of people around her, standing in a pool of warm light that made her little white dress seem to glow in the semi-darkness of that corner of the pub — only reinforced the illusion.

But she was looking at him — right at him — her hands folded demurely before her, a small smile playing about her lips. Without really knowing he was doing it, he'd taken a half-step forward, then another. As he progressed slowly through the crowd, people on all sides called out his name, slapped his back, reached out to shake his hand. He smiled absently and nodded in semi-conscious acknowledgement of the boisterous greetings, but he kept his eyes on her, half fearing that if he looked away, she'd disappear. As he snaked his way through the throng, he felt his cheeks heat up and he knew he was probably wearing a dim-witted grin, but he didn't care. The closer he got, the more he could see of her — more than he'd ever seen — and she was as lovely up close as she'd seemed to be from afar. More so. Her smile widened the nearer he got, until he was before her, just two feet away from her, acknowledging the welcoming backslaps from Seamus, Neville and Padma with a casual nod while keeping his eyes squarely focused on her. Now that he was this close, he could fully appreciate the difference in their heights. He was at least a foot taller than she was, but he didn't care. He fought back an almost irresistible urge to fold her in his arms to test how well she'd fit there, but thankfully he had the presence of mind to contain himself.

"I'm Ron Weasley," he said instead, his expression a mix of puzzlement and awe.

He could hardly believe this was really happening, but the sound of her voice — shy, but in a honeyed alto tone that made his heart flip — convinced him this was real.

"Hermione Granger."

Hermione Granger. Hermione. Her name had a beautiful, musical sound to it. Her-my-oh-nee. Blimey. He'd never heard such a name.

She smiled up at him, her eyes traveling from point to point over his face, and he realized his ears were heating up but he didn't care. She was luminous. Clear, tanned skin and eyes the color of Firewhiskey. A spray of freckles across he bridge of her nose. The curls that had so captured his attention that very first morning were pinned up in some sort of updo that he couldn't quite fathom, but a few strands had escaped their bindings and were playing about her forehead, her cheeks and her slender neck.

Suddenly he realized he'd been standing there slackjawed for an uncomfortably long time — and, though he didn't give a rip at the moment, he was also aware that his friends were watching the entire scene before them with barely contained mirth.

Shaking himself back into consciousness, he extended his hand. "Would you care to dance, Miss Granger?"

She nodded and placed her hand in his, sending a glow of warmth up his arm and throughout his body that was like nothing so much as the day his very own wand found him at Ollivander's.

oooOOOooo

 _I'm killing you with the very short chapters, I know. But this pacing feels right for this point in the story, and I'm going to try to update frequently. Hang in there — and please share your constructive feedback in the comments section!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

As Ron led her through the crowd, Hermione savored the warm tingling that had unexpectedly spread throughout her tiny frame from the point where their hands met. The sensation frightened her a bit at first, but she decided somehow to roll with it. If she had been more in possession of her faculties, she would have noticed, as they threaded their way through the gathering, that nearly the entire pub had turned to watch the two of them approaching the dance floor. But she was too absorbed by the glimmer of Ron's copper-hued hair in the lantern light, not to mention the way his back tapered from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips, to spare a moment's thought for much of anything else.

Ron, for his part, felt somehow as if he had swallowed Gillyweed and was moving through murky waters, so numbed were his senses to everything but the feel of her warm, soft and tiny hand in his. As he turned to face her on the dance floor, however, his pulse quickened at the sight of her, looking up at him so expectantly.

A new song replaced the one previous, and thankfully it seemed to be a ballad with a smooth, slow rhythm. Ron didn't recognize it except to know that it must have been one of the many muggle recordings that Aberforth had recently added to the Hoghead's playlist in order to liven the place up a bit, though Hermione knew the song's organ-infused opening notes instantly.

 _No, woman, no cry_  
 _No, woman, no cry_  
 _Here little darling, don't shed no tears_  
 _No, woman, no cry_

The rhythm was irresistible despite Ron's unfamiliarity with the song itself, and as he settled a slightly shaking hand on Hermione's lower back, he blessed whatever bloke had invented dancing — for he was quite certain it must have been a bloke. Who else but a bloke would have dreamt up a socially acceptable excuse to approach a woman — even a a total stranger, as the lovely Hermione Granger was — and hold her in his arms? As the music pulled the two of them into a slow and steady swaying motion, his gaze sank into hers and they were simultaneously quite lost to the world, exploring the depths of one another's eyes. He kept a respectable distance between their bodies despite his desire to pull her flush up against him and never let go. Not a word was spoken for the entire length of the song, though neither of them could be counted on to know that a full five minutes had passed in complete and not at all uncomfortable silence. Both were too busy studying the other's face to be conscious of anything else.

 _Little sister, don't shed no tears_  
 _No, woman, no cry_

The final notes of the song died out over their heads, and Ron begrudgingly shook himself from his stupor. As the sound of the next song rolled out over the crowd — _My love must be a kind of blind love … I can't see anyone but you_ — it finally occurred to Ron that he ought to say something, though he was damned if he knew what that might be.

For lack of any better ideas, he finally sputtered the first lucid thought that had entered his head since he'd set eyes on her. "So, I'm, uh … I'm glad to see you again," he said, and he felt his ears heat up immediately upon hearing himself blabber such gibberish. Why had he said that? Pixie crap on toast!

Hermione, meanwhile, had just then been taking a few deep breaths in an effort to quell the blush that she knew must surely be creeping up from her chest and staining her cheeks an embarrassing red. All through the previous song, she'd been lost in this complete stranger's eyes — the bluest, she decided, that she had ever beheld — and it wasn't until the song ended that she realized her mesmerized behavior might have struck him as quite odd indeed. And yet, when the second song started up, she thanked the heavens that it was another slow tune and therefore he didn't seem the least bit inclined to release her from his arms.

Even so, she'd been trying to calm herself and regain some sense of propriety, knowing that she couldn't very well spend the whole evening gaping at him in mute distraction. She'd never felt so discomposed by a man before. What was the matter with her?

She was so lost in these thoughts that she nearly didn't hear Ron's statement — did he say, "I'm glad to see you again?" — and her brow furrowed in confusion as she struggled to catch up.

Ron interpreted her expression as disapproval of some sort, because he started back-pedaling then, hoping to better explain what was bound to be an awkward set of circumstances.

Cursing himself inwardly, he sputtered, "Well, um, you see, it's not like we've actually met, mind. It's just that…"

As his voice trailed off, Hermione stepped in to help him. "I suppose you mean that my friend Dean told you about me at some point, yes?" she said in that honeyed tone that made Ron's heart flip again.

"Erm, wait, you're Dean's friend?" Ron replied. "I mean, I knew he had a friend back home, and he's talked about, uh, about bringing her up to Hogsmeade sometime, but … wait … is that you?"

Hermione smiled and let out an embarrassed little laugh. "I imagine so, yes."

"Oh, I reckon that makes sense," Ron said, tightening his grip on her hand slightly in relief before catching himself and easing up a bit. "It's just that, well, you see, Dean never mentioned your name — at least not to me — just always said he had a buddy back home that he wanted us all to meet."

"I see."

Their conversation dissolved as the music swelled around them, and Ron took a few experimental steps to turn and steer them closer to the darkest corner of the dance floor, unconsciously maneuvering so that their joined hands were resting gently against his chest.

 _You are here_  
 _And so am I_  
 _Maybe millions of people go by_  
 _But they all disappear from view_  
 _'Cause I only have eyes for you_

Ron's gaze had intensified to the point where Hermione finally had to tear her eyes away from his and focus on something else, settling on the sight of his hand wrapped around hers, entirely encasing it in his firm grip. But she could still feel the warmth of his eyes upon her — she couldn't have known, of course, how thoroughly charmed he was by her blushes — and she peered up at him through her lashes now and then, a fluttery feeling overtaking her each time she looked to find that his gaze had never wavered. He was regarding her as if he had sighted a rare bird that might alight and fly away at a moment's notice.

Despite her pounding heart and racing thoughts, the questions percolating at the back of Hermione's mind eventually resurfaced again, and she found the nerve to ask one of them.

"You said you were glad to see me again," she said with a shy smile. "But … but we've never met."

Bugger. Ron had been hoping she'd let that particular slip-up pass. He'd been debating with himself about whether — or even how — to come clean about the tea shop and the park bench and all that without sounding like some sort of deranged stalker. What was the matter with him? He'd never been this nervous with a girl before — at least not since his Hogwarts days. Before he had a chance to really think it through, his nerves got the better of him and he found himself talking despite his better judgment.

"This might sound a bit mental," he began with a gulp, "but, you see, I'm an Auror," he said, tipping his head to the side to see if she was following him. He was glad to see her smile and nod in recognition of what that meant. "Anyway, sometimes Aurors have to track down bad guys, and sometimes that means we have to do what we call stakeouts, which sounds cooler than it really is, because a stakeout involves mostly just sitting around on your duff and waiting for the bad guys to show up."

Hermione bit her lip and chuckled at this, and Ron felt his insides quiver again as they had been doing ever since he'd laid eyes on her that night.

They continued to sway gently as the music shifted again — _unforgettable, that's what you are … unforgettable though near or far_ — and Ron pressed on, cautiously optimistic about her response thus far.

"Well, a few weeks ago I had a case that took me to a certain park bench across from a certain tea shop in Sevenoaks," he continued, watching her eyebrows rise in recognition, her eyes raking over his face. "Spent many an hour sitting in that very spot, biding my time, waiting for a smuggler my team had been tracking to show himself. He finally did, but not before I'd come to depend on seeing a certain curly-haired girl at precisely 7 o'clock every morning."

He smiled as her mouth dropped open slightly in amazement, and he drew her just a bit closer as the music seemed to envelop them.

 _Unforgettable in every way_  
 _And forever more, that's how you'll stay_

"I'd noticed her that very first day. Any bloke would, mind," he said, the grin he'd been trying to suppress finally breaking through and causing Hermione's cheeks to flush even redder. "So imagine my delight when she showed up again the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that," he added. "For two long weeks, 7 o'clock was the highlight of my day. And then, on Tuesday, we took that smuggler down, and suddenly I realized I might never see that girl again — that is, 'til tonight."

oooOOOooo

 _A/N — If you're wondering, the songs in my head as I wrote this were:_

 _"No Woman, No Cry," Bob Marley & The Wailers (live version is best!)_  
 _"I Only Have Eyes for You," The Flamingoes_  
 _"Unforgettable," Nat King Cole_

 _Please review!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Hermione listened, her skin awash in goosebumps, as Ron told the tale of his early-morning sightings of her. Having a perfect stranger admire her from afar — well, it was downright flattering, no matter how unlikely the scenario seemed to be to the rational side of her mind. Something about the straightforward way Ron looked at her as he spoke, with his gaze steady and earnest and eyes so, so mind-numbingly blue … she found herself throwing her usual judgments to the wind, knowing that a saner version of her own self would likely think she was mad for trusting him.

"You … you saw me … every day?" she sputtered through a disbelieving grin.

Ron, who up until that point had been smiling so hard that his cheeks were beginning to hurt, sobered up a bit and took a breath. "Every. Single. Day," he said solemnly, the smile on his face having softened into something more plaintive. He so hoped she knew he was sincere. As she took in his words, he prayed she would understand. This wasn't a come-on. This wasn't a pick-up line. This was … well, he wasn't quite sure what it was. It was simply a bloody amazing coincidence — right?

Hermione, for her part, was about to ask why she had never seen him there on that park bench, for she knew the very one he meant. But she was interrupted by the sounds of a loud song with a bouncing beat taking over where Nat King Cole left off — _ooh I need your love, babe … guess you know it's true_ — as the other dancers whooped and whirled around them and, just then, Dean appeared seemingly from out of nowhere and threw an arm around Ron's shoulder.

"You're not going to keep Hermione to yourself all night, are you mate?" Dean said tauntingly, punching Ron in the arm with his free hand.

"What? No!" Ron answered reflexively, before catching himself and adding with a sheepish grin, "Well, maybe."

Harry and Ginny sidled up as well. They both wore knowing grins that made it very plain that they — and very likely the entire pub — had been quite amused by the sight of Ron barging in, barely uttering a word to anyone, locking eyes on and making a beeline for a perfect stranger and then sweeping her out onto the dance floor while wearing the kind of glassy-eyed grin normally reserved for those who've been Imperiused. To say this behavior was unlike him was an understatement — and he knew it. Ron inwardly cursed Harry and Ginny's arrival, for it meant it was necessary to yield to politeness and let go of Hermione.

"Hi, I'm Harry," Harry said over the music as he extended his hand to Hermione for a friendly shake. "And this is my fiancee, Ginny," he added. Ginny stepped forward eagerly to greet Hermione as well — while shooting an "I'll talk with you later" look to her brother.

"Oh, I'm so happy to meet you both," Hermione said, feeling her cheeks once again pink up at the realization that Ron's friends were likely going to be taking the mickey out of him all night — maybe even for days — over their performance on the dance floor.

"Same here," said Harry, deciding to try to ease Hermione's obvious discomfort. "Dean's talked about having you come up and hang out with us before. Glad he finally got around to it."

Hermione smiled as Dean stepped to her side. "And I'm so glad he did," she said. "I know this is always a big event every year. It's so nice to finally be able to get to know everyone."

Extending his elbow to Hermione, Dean said, "Well, if we don't act fast, Neville will beat us to the buffet table upstairs, and Aberforth is laying out quite a spread. Let's eat, folks."

With that, Hermione looped her arm through Dean's and followed him toward a stairwell at the back of the pub where Aberforth Dumbledore was indeed at that very moment toting a large platter of baked chicken toward an upstairs room that Hermione guessed had been reserved for the Hogwarts reunion bash.

Ron made to follow but was stopped in his tracks by Ginny. "Not so fast, mister," she drawled while grabbing her brother by the elbow and jerking him backward to face her.

Ron took in her devious grin and rolled his eyes. "What?" he said in what he hoped was an innocent-sounding voice while tugging himself from Ginny's grip. He knew there was no way on Gandalf's great green Earth that Ginny, who had unsuccessfully tried to match him up with various friends and teammates of hers for years, was going to let Ron get away with such starry-eyed behavior without prying. And, stealing a glance at Harry's barely concealed laughter, he realized his best mate had no intention of bailing him out.

"What do you mean 'What?'" Ginny shot back. "You practically sleepwalk your way up to a girl you've never met and then proceed to drool all over her on the dance floor, and you expect me not to ask you what the bloody hell is going on?"

"I didn't drool!"

"Ha! Are you kidding?" Ginny snapped. "You looked like you'd been hit with an industrial-strength Cheering charm."

"That's a crime now? Smiling? I have to check with you before I can enjoy myself?" Ron bellowed before looking left then right and realizing that every dancer nearby could hear. "You know, Ginny," he continued at a lower volume, "I might have put up with this kind of interrogation a few years ago, but now—"

"Shhh! Honestly!" Ginny said, cutting him off, before continuing at a lower and more conciliatory, sing-song voice, "It's just that it was adorable, that's all," she said, taking Ron's arm and twirling until it was wrapped around her shoulders, a sisterly gesture she knew he could never resist for long. "And I've never seen you act that way with a girl," she added, grinning up at him. "You were so cute."

Ron rolled his eyes and huffed, but soon buckled under the warmth of Ginny's smile, pulling her tightly to him and kissing her on the top of the head. "Come on, you two," he said, cocking his head toward the stairwell. "I haven't eaten in at least an hour. I'm starving."

"You're always starving," said Harry as he slapped Ron on the back and led the three of them through the crowd toward the back of the pub.

"Precisely," Ron shouted at the back of Harry's head. "And just for the record," he muttered into Ginny's ear, "I'm not cute."

"Oh, what are you then?" Ginny asked with an arched brow.

"Gorgeous, maybe, or just plain hot. I'll even settle for devastatingly handsome — but never cute."

The trio arrived upstairs to find that Aberforth had outdone himself. This gathering had become a first-Saturday-of-May tradition among the Hogwarts alums who were students the time of the final battle, and every year Aberforth went to greater extremes to make the group feel welcome. This year the buffet was dominated by a giant, Quaffle-shaped chocolate cake topped with three golden sugar Quidditch goals, through which a miniature marzipan figure of Minerva McGonagall flew and looped on a tiny licorice broom. The rest of the table was positively piled high with all manner of roasted meats, cheeses, sausages, potatoes and pies.

The upstairs gathering was a smaller and more intimate one than the raucous dance party gathered below, and after passing through the buffet and piling their plates high with food, Ron, Harry and Ginny claimed the only three open seats left at the long dining table positioned at the center of the torch-lit room. To Ron's dismay, those seats happened to be at the far end away from Hermione, who was seated between Dean and a very chatty and quite animated Seamus. Ron's only consolation was that he had a clear view of Hermione from his spot to the left of Harry who, by unspoken tradition, always took the head of the table at this get-together. Ron's knuckles reflexively tightened around his knife and fork as he spied Seamus laying his hand briefly on Hermione's forearm to underscore whatever point it was he making, though he quickly chastised himself for being ridiculous. They're only talking, that's all — or that's what he told himself, a rationalization that settled his nerves enough to allow him to tuck into the giant serving of cottage pie that he'd ladled onto his plate. He looked again a minute later and saw that Hermione was still listening intently to Seamus though, just as Ron was about to give it up as a bad job and pay closer attention to his food, she shifted her eyes toward him. With a soft smile, Hermione looked down at her lap and then returned her gaze to him a moment later, blushing anew before Seamus drew her attention away again.

Ron's heart thumped in his chest. _Albus Yosemite Dumbledore & Company_, he thought, laughing inwardly at himself and his over-the-top reactions to this girl's every expression. He told himself that if he kept this up, he'd be surprised to survive the night.

Just then, Harry's voice broke through the buzzing in his head.

"So, mate, you closed the smuggling case tonight, eh?" Harry said.

"What's that? Oh, yeah, I turned the whole file over to Monteith this afternoon," Ron said, reassured to see that Ginny, sitting on Harry's right, was deep in conversation with Luna and it was therefore safe to talk a bit about work.

"He's really come along, Monteith has," Harry said between bites of his roast beef, and Ron couldn't help but smile. Ever since Harry launched that introductory Auror training program for Hogwarts students, he was forever finding excuses to praise his charges in one way or another. Just like a natural-born teacher should, Ron reckoned.

Ron took a swig of his pumpkin juice and nodded. "He showed some good instincts on this case. 'Course, it remains to be seen whether we've really gotten to the bottom of it."

"Yeah, I reckon Brocklehurst will want to go over what you guys learned in the briefing next week," Harry replied, motioning for the pitcher of butterbeer, which Ron passed over. As Harry poured, he stole a look at Ron and caught him momentarily gazing down the table toward Hermione. "Nice girl," Harry said, smirking at Ron's mildly startled reaction.

Ron had the good grace to laugh at himself, though he was still so busy chewing he couldn't answer just then.

"Just, you know, be careful," Harry said in an undertone after peeking Ginny's way and satisfying himself that she wasn't listening. "Dean will strangle you with his bare hands if she gets hurt."

"No need to worry about that, mate."

Before Harry had a chance to ask what Ron meant by that intriguing remark, Roger Davies — who had been sitting next to Ron and chatting enthusiastically with Ernie MacMillan — nudged Ron for the butterbeer pitcher, and the motion drew Ginny back into the conversation, putting an end to Harry's pursuit of the topic of Hermione Granger — much to Ron's relief.

Down the table, Hermione was doing her best to attend to Seamus' tale of the time in third year when he and Dean had skived off Astronomy class and taken a highly unauthorized hike through the Forbidden Forest.

As she nodded and laughed at the appropriate places, Hermione searched her own mind. No, she'd never actually seen Ron on any of those mornings when she'd stopped by Tidley's Teas for her morning cuppa, but nevertheless … she couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity that overcame her when she looked at him, almost as if she'd known him all her life. She rubbed her fingers together in her lap, reliving the pleasant sensation of warmth that surged through her right hand and throughout the rest of her body when he'd touched her for the first time.

Her hyper-rational self — the self she listened to in most situations, truth be told — was working overtime, wrestling with the highly irrational sensation that had overcome her when Ron walked into the pub earlier that evening. At least he had a somewhat sensible rationale for recognizing her tonight — he'd seen her before, after all. But what could possibly explain her overpowering reaction to him? He was, comprehensively and without question, a total stranger to her, and yet she felt drawn to him in a way she couldn't begin to explain. What was more astonishing than that, at least to her, was that she didn't care to explain it. It simply was. She was fascinated by this bloke in a way she'd never experienced in her life. And she was eager to see where that fascination might lead.

oooOOOooo

 _I know … I'm killing you yet again with another short chapter. But I figure it's better to write and post quickly than to string these things out and make you wait. If things go as I expect them to, I won't be dallying over this night for much longer. I can't help but savor every detail of their first meeting, however. I hope you're enjoying the tale._

 _It's a holiday weekend and I intend to spend as much of it as possible writing. So stay tuned for more! In the meantime, do review, won't you? Constructive reviews make me write faster. ;-)_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Hermione took a shaky breath, the cool air of the Scottish night soothing her warm cheeks and tingling against the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. She hoped she hadn't been rude when she stood abruptly in the middle of the yarn that Seamus had been spinning and stepped away, but it really couldn't be helped. She'd been fighting back tears ever since Harry gave that stirring toast to the ideals that all present—all except Hermione, that is—had fought for during the war. She hadn't expected to be quite so overwhelmed with emotion on this night, but she had been, and she knew very well why. The connection that Dean and his friends shared felt like something she'd always wanted and would never have. She'd always known this, of course, but seeing it up close … well, it was more than she could take without breaking down and making a spectacle of herself.

Not that Dean's friends hadn't done their best to welcome her — they had. Leaning against the railing along the Hogshead's side porch, she smiled as she recalled how well she and Ginny in particular had hit it off, having bumped into one another in the lounge connected to the ladies loo, where they plopped onto one of the comfy sofas for a private chat. Ginny's thinly veiled desire to pump whatever information she could from Hermione was actually quite endearing — it was clear that she and her brother Ron were exceptionally close — but Hermione felt the potential for friendship with Ginny went even deeper than that. She'd shown a genuine interest in Hermione's work as a muggle history teacher — certainly more interest than Seamus had shown, Hermione noted with an amused smirk. And Ginny seemed sincerely touched when Hermione placed a hand over hers and offered her condolences on the anniversary of the battle. "Dean told me you lost your brother that day," Hermione had said. "I can only imagine it's something you never quite get over."

Ginny had clasped Hermione's hand tightly in hers at that moment and struggled to choke back a sob. "Well no," she had finally said through a watery grin, "you never get over it but, well, you learn to live the way he would have wanted you to live, for his sake," and Hermione felt a surge of respect for this very strong young woman before her. Clearly she had endured much, but her zest and determination were undimmed. Hermione couldn't help but admire her.

Thoughts of Ginny inevitably led Hermione's mind back to its principal preoccupation of the evening, Ginny's tall and handsome brother. As she had done all evening, Hermione once again pondered the instantaneous and undeniable attraction she felt for him. She'd never experienced such a jolt of pure, undistilled desire upon laying eyes on a man — and yet, she'd felt it tonight. The thought of it unnerved her and yet she couldn't help hoping that the feeling was mutual. Just has she was beginning to think she ought to return to the party or risk seeming impolite, she heard the deep sound of a man clearing his throat behind her, and she let out a little yelp of surprise.

"Bugger, I'm sorry to startle you," said Ron, who was standing in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the pub. "It's just that … well, I saw you step out and reckoned maybe someone ought to check on you. Thought maybe you might want one of these," he continued as he offered her one of the two small round glasses of punch in his hands.

Hermione, who had pressed a hand to her chest in surprise, let out a little laugh and took the offered punch, whispering her thanks. After taking a sip, she explained, "I just got a bit warm for a moment and decided to get a little fresh air."

"Mmm, yeah, it's crowded in there, isn't it," Ron said with a nod. "And it can't be easy listening to a roomful of people you've never met before reminiscing about old times. The war stories have to get quite boring after a while."

"No, not at all!" Hermione interjected before catching herself and smiling sheepishly. "I mean, I only wish I knew more. I know only as much as Dean has told me over the years, plus whatever little I've read here and there in the press. I have immense respect for what all of you achieved."

Ron placed his punch glass on the railing next to Hermione and leaned out as she had been doing when he'd found her here, looking up into the starry night that had settled over the mountains around Hogsmeade. A soft wind was blowing a few strands of cloud past the full moon, and the cricketsong echoing down from the surrounding hills was so loud that it quite nearly drowned out the sound of the party going on inside. Hermione, for her part, had settled herself so she was half-seated on the railing, her back against the stone pillar behind her. She followed Ron's gaze skyward, amazed at how many more stars could be seen in the sky here as opposed to back home near London. She was still thinking this thought when Ron shifted his gaze toward her, taking in the sight of her in the evening light, her pinned-up hair glistening in the lantern glow from the window to her right, her face washed in the cool and radiant moonlight. His insides did another flip — something he'd experienced so many times that evening that he was almost used to it. Gods, she was lovely. But there was more than that. There was an intelligence and a kindness, perhaps even a melancholy — he'd seen it, or sensed it — and he wanted so much to know more about what was going on inside that otherwise alluring exterior.

She looked to him then and caught him staring at her. She looked away toward the ground. He didn't. When she willed herself to look at him again, he was still staring directly at her and, for whatever reason, this struck them both as funny and they both laughed a bit nervously.

When their laughter died down, Ron seated himself facing her as she had done, one leg propped up on the railing, his back leaning against the stone pillar behind him. He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, making it point in a hundred different directions.

"So, you're magical," he said then.

She nodded. "Dean must have mentioned it."

Shaking his head, Ron said, "If he did, I don't remember it."

Hermione's eyebrows rose in confusion at this statement, causing Ron to rub the back of his neck and look down at his feet. He returned his gaze to her face a moment later. "I saw you back in Sevenoaks. Spilt your tea, remember?"

Astonished, Hermione gave him a slightly open-mouthed nod.

"Nifty Drying charm, that," Ron continued. "How'd you learn it?" he asked, hoping it didn't sound like he was cross-examining her. The truth was, he was simply curious.

"Oh, well thanks," she replied, trying to collect herself. "I taught myself that one from one of the books Dean gave me. I'm mostly self-taught, really, though Dean has given me some lessons over the years."

"Good thing he did," Ron said quietly, and he meant it. An untrained witch, not knowing any defenses, would have been a prime target during the Voldemort days.

"Yes, I really owe Dean so much," Hermione added, looking down at her hands, which she had knitted together a bit anxiously in her lap. "He gave me my wand—an old hand-me-down, but still, it basically works for me. And when the war began, he taught me some defensive techniques, protective charms, that sort of thing. Once he showed me Cave Inimicum, I was able to deploy it throughout my town during the war. I managed to keep my parents and my neighbors safe that way, and I couldn't have done it if he hadn't shown me how."

Ron was flabbergasted. Cave Inimicum? That was no rudimentary spell — it was pretty advanced magic. "You did that all by yourself?" he asked, a small smile playing about his lips.

She nodded.

"Blimey," he said. "You would have had to go out and reinforce that spell just about once a night to keep it active."

Hermione smiled and nodded again.

"Merlin bless me," he said. "You're a brave one."

Hermione shook her head. "We all did what we had to do, didn't we."

With a faint, mirthless laugh, Ron replied, "I reckon so."

Just then, Harry and Ginny appeared in the doorway. "Hey there, you two," Ginny said with a knowing grin. "We wondered where you'd gone off to."

"Just taking in a bit of fresh air," Hermione said as she stood and straightened her skirt.

"No need to explain yourself," Harry said, giving Ginny an exaggerated elbow to the ribs. "We really just wanted to say good night. The party's starting to break up and Ginny's got a match tomorrow, so we're going to have to be sticks in the mud and head back to Grimmauld Place."

Dean stepped out onto the porch just then and strode to Hermione's side. "Guess it's getting to be about that time," he said. "A few people are going to Disapparate to a diner down in Bishopsgate, but I've got rounds at St. Mungo's bright and early tomorrow, so …"

"They're working your fingers to the bone in the Healer program, eh Dean?" said Harry playfully.

"Hey, next time one of you Aurors gets carted into my ward, banged up beyond recognition, you'll be glad they worked these fingers to the bone," Dean said, wiggling his fingers at Harry.

"True that," said Harry. "You guys have certainly patched me and Ron up enough times."

"So, shall we say our farewells?" Dean said, turning to Hermione.

"Oh, no worries," said Hermione weakly. She was hoping for a way to extend the evening, but could think of no credible excuses. Little did she know that Ron was furiously running through the options at that same moment, and coming up similarly blank. He was in no mood to see the evening end just yet, but everything he could think of — including offering to see Hermione home himself — just seemed too freakishly forward.

Ginny, to their immense relief, came to the rescue in a roundabout way.

"Hermione," she said, extending her hand and pulling Hermione into a quick hug, "you told me you've never seen a Quidditch match. I know it's short notice, but if you're free tomorrow, why don't you come to the Harpies game as my special guest? We're playing the Tutshill Tornadoes."

"That's always been a wicked rivalry," Dean said. "I'd love to go, but—"

"I know, I know, you've got rounds," Ginny replied with a roll of the eyes. "Well, what do you say, Hermione?"

"I'd love to!" Hermione said with pleasure so genuine that it lit up her face.

"Wonderful!" Ginny said, pulling Hermione into another hug. "Here's what we'll do. I've got to be at the stadium by noon for practice and whatnot. Harry's coming a bit early, too, because he's got to sit for a press interview — Witch Weekly is doing a spread on the Harpies' significant others, if you can believe anyone would be interested in that rot. Anyway, the match starts at 3 o'clock. Ron, do you think you could swing by Hermione's place and pick her up at, say, 2:30?"

It was all Ron could do to nod in a casual enough way so as not to betray the elation he felt at his sister's ingenious plan. "Yeah, sure, I'm free," he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his khakis. "All I need is an address, and I'll be there."

Her heart pounding ridiculously in her chest, Hermione shuffled through the little beaded handbag that had been dangling from her shoulder and pulled out a pencil and a small pad of note paper. She scribbled out her address, hoping no one could see her hands shaking. As Hermione handed the paper to Ron, Ginny clapped her hands in excitement. "Oh, this is so great! Your first Quidditch match — and you'll get to watch it in the private box just for the team's guests, so the view will be fantastic," Ginny said breathlessly. "Don't forget to wear layers, though — it can get a bit chilly in Holyhead, especially after the sun goes down. It's right on the Irish Sea, so the weather can be a bit dicey. Ron, you'll get her there in one piece?"

Ron gave Ginny a little mock salute and everyone laughed.

"OK, well now that you're all sorted for tomorrow," Dean said to Hermione, "let's get me sorted so I'm not bleary eyed when I start seeing patients in the morning, eh?"

With that, he and Hermione said their farewells. Ginny and Hermione embraced again while Dean, Harry and Ron shook hands. When Ginny released her, Hermione turned to shake hands with Harry, who surprised her by giving her a kiss on the cheek. Laughing, she turned to Ron. They smiled awkwardly at one another before she extended her hand to him. He took it in both of his and opened his mouth to speak, only finding, to his horror, that his mouth was so dry from nerves that his voice came out as a croak. Trying again, he managed to say, "See you tomorrow" before reluctantly letting go of her hand.

Looping her arm through Dean's, Hermione then turned and took the stairs with him down to street level beside the porch. Before Dean could Disapparate the two of them home, she stole another glance at Ron and noted how his navy blue button-down shirt contrasted so becomingly with his creamy skin and with his hair, so coppery in the lantern light. Ron, for his part, couldn't look away if he tried, and he didn't care that Ginny and Harry were sniggering at him as the three of them stood and waved goodbye to Dean and Hermione. Hermione, meanwhile, smiled up at Ron and gave him a shy wave before she felt the familiar tug of Dean's Disapparition spell carry her away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"So, you and Weasley, eh?" Dean said after Hermione had a moment to catch her breath. She was still new to the sensation of Disapparating and reckoned she'd never quite get used to it.

Strolling with him from the alleyway behind the little maisonette where she lived, Hermione made more of a show of rummaging through her little beaded purse for her keys than necessary, in the hopes that it might give her an opportunity to hide the blush that she could feel rising in her cheeks once again. When she finally did pull her keys out of her bag in playful triumph, she wasn't surprised to find that Dean was looking at her with a "you can't fool me" smirk.

"OK, I admit it," Hermione said through small grin, "he's quite interesting."

"Interesting?" Dean barked. "You couldn't keep your eyes off him."

Hermione slapped him on the shoulder playfully and said, "Is there some reason why I _should_ keep my eyes off him?"

Dean shrugged and paused at the iron gate in front of Hermione's flat. "No, none that I can think of. I mean, he's single, if that's what you're getting at. And yeah, Ron's a good guy. A great guy, actually. No objections here. It's just that, well," Dean continued, shoving his hands into his pockets, "you've never been the head-over-heels type."

"Head over heels?" Hermione huffed. "Honestly! You make it sound like I threw myself at him."

"Get off it, Granger," Dean said, giving her shoulder a little shove. "I've known you since kindergarten and I know how you are around blokes, always giving them the hard-to-get treatment. So, no, you certainly didn't throw yourself at him. But that starry-eyed smile — I've never seen you wear it before. And I've never seen Ron that far gone either."

Hermione gasped and whispered an astonished "really?" before she had a chance to stop herself, and Dean threw his head back in open-mouthed laughter.

"Oh lord, you're in trouble," he said, pressing his palm to his forehead melodramatically.

"Seriously, Dean, tell me. Tell me or you'll live to regret teaching me that Jellylegs jinx!"

Dean sighed and leaned a hand against the gate, crossing his ankles casually. "OK, OK, seriously — I've known Ron pretty well for almost as long as I've known you, and yeah, he's dated around, but never anything long-term. He usually plays it pretty cool with girls. Hangs back, you know? Which I guess he's had to do since the war. Birds are always making passes at him."

Hermione felt her heart fall a bit at this observation. Dean saw the disappointment on her face and hurried to correct himself, straightening up and speaking more earnestly. "I don't mean to make him sound like he's full of himself because he's really not — he's actually always been a very humble guy, very self-deprecating. But tonight was unlike anything I've ever seen from Ron before. To see him that gobsmacked — and not caring who knew it — well, it was just pretty unlike him, let me put it that way."

Hermione looked down at her shoes, fighting with her own emotions. She didn't want to get carried away with herself and was already questioning her own judgment about what had happened that night. "Do you," she said quietly, "do you really think he likes me?"

Dean scoffed and crossed his arms. "No, I don't think he likes you," he said scornfully.

In a flash, Hermione lifted her face to him, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, her heart pounding painfully in her chest.

"I think he's arse over tea kettle for you, eedjit," he added.

Hermione couldn't help it — she let out a little squeal of joy, throwing her arms around Dean's shoulders and giving him a little peck on the cheek before practically skipping through the gate and heading up the stairs to her second-story flat.

"Good night, you lunatic," Dean called after her, and she gave him a comical curtsy before turning the latch and closing the door behind her.

Ron, meanwhile, was getting similar treatment at the hands of Ginny and Harry.

Opting not to return to the party, the trio strolled down a few blocks down Hogsmeade High Street, taking in the cool night air and enjoying the view of the castle, which became more and more visible the farther south they moved along the street.

"So, have you two decided how many kids you're going to have?" Harry asked, drawing a quick slap to the back of the head from Ron.

"She's a nice girl, that's all," said Ron.

"She's more than nice, she intelligent, too," Harry said with a smart-alecky grin. "Went to Oxford. Teaches world history. I think she may be too smart for you."

"I can guarantee she's too smart for me, but that's setting the bar pretty low," Ron said.

"Seriously, though, I like her," Ginny interjected, giving Harry a nudge. "And what's more important than that, _you_ like her, big brother. And I think she likes you."

Ron stopped in his tracks, stuffing one hand deep into his pants pocket while raising the other to the nape of his neck. "Think so?" he said softly.

With a laugh, Ginny stepped toward him and, standing on tip-toe, gave him a peck on the cheek. "See you tomorrow, Ronnie," she said through a warm grin before turning on the spot and Side-Alonging away with Harry.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Hermione had a hard time getting to sleep that night — her mind was simply buzzing as she relived every glance, every word, that had passed between her and Ron that evening. Despite Dean's assurances, she couldn't help but second-guess herself: Had she imagined the frisson of warmth she felt when Ron touched her hand? Was the fascination entirely one-sided?

Sleep did eventually claim her, but her dreams were full of a tall, blue-eyed, red-headed man, his firm, strong hand wrapped around hers, and the slow rhythm that moved them around the dance floor.

She awakened the next morning feeling energized despite her restless sleep. After making herself a cup of tea and a scrambled egg, she tuned in her favorite Sunday morning program on BBC Radio 3 and busied herself with tidying up the flat. Not that it needed much tidying. She looked around and tried to see the space through Ron's eyes, and had to admit that she felt a little swell of pride at what she'd done with the place. It was quite neglected when she'd moved in — which was very much why she could afford it in such a posh community as Sevenoaks on a schoolteacher's salary — but she had spent many months painting, wallpapering, installing the bookshelves that she needed for her extensive collection, stripping the woodwork and turning it into a cozy spot that she very much enjoyed coming home to each day. A flat that had once been dark and dingy was now fresh and light. She wondered what Ron would think of it.

Just then, the telephone rang, and Hermione stepped into her little galley kitchen to answer it.

"Happy Sunday, darling."

"And to you, Mum! How are you?"

"Quite well, quite well indeed. So glad it's finally May and the weather is starting to warm up. Your father and I just took a nice hike down to Knole Park and back. My feet hurt but it was worth it."

Hermione laughed. "I have a few errands to run so I'll get a chance to get some fresh air too soon enough. So, what's up?"

"Well, we were just wondering if you might care to join us for dinner tonight. I think your father might light the barbecue."

"Oh, well, normally I'd love to, but—"

"John Foley is back from his surgical internship in Paris, and we thought perhaps we might invite him and his parents by as well."

"Mum, when are you going to stop trying to fix me up with John Foley?" Hermione said.

"Fix you up? Nonsense. Though he is a nice young man with a good career ahead of him. You could do worse, darling."

"You're right — John is a perfectly nice bloke. I'm just not interested, all right?"

"Fine, fine. We'll see the Foleys another time. So, what time should we expect you?"

"Mum, I was about to explain that I'd love to come over but, as it happens, I have plans this evening."

"Plans? On a Sunday night?"

"Well, yes, I'm sorry. But thanks so much for the invitation."

"May I ask what your plans might be?"

"Well, seeing as you just asked," Hermione said with a smirk, "I'm going out with some friends of Dean's."

A long pause followed.

"Friends of Dean's," Hermione's mum said slowly.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Yes, Mum, that's what I said."

Hermione's mum cleared her throat. "They're not — they're not that sort of friends, are they? From that school of his?"

"You know very well what sort of friends they are, Mum — they're graduates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Hermione said, trying her best to keep her annoyance in check.

"How on Earth — when on Earth — did you meet these people," her mother said, her voice dripping with disdain.

"I met them last night, Mum. I finally took Dean up on his invitation to go to one of their reunions, and I'm very glad I did. They were all incredibly friendly, and it was nice to spend some time, for once in my life, with people who are like me."

"They're not like you, and you're not like them, Hermione," her mother snapped. "We've gone over this before."

Hermione sighed. "Yes, yes we have, mother, and it would seem that we will go over it again and again in the future. If you could only try to open your mind to the idea that—"

"Open my mind? To what? This, this, ability you have is just that — an ability. It doesn't mean you have to associate yourself with … well, it just makes me dreadfully uncomfortable, darling. You don't know these people. You don't know what sorts of odd rituals and practices they might indulge in, what their inclinations might be—"

"Mum, you've known Dean for as long as I have and he's 'one of these people,' as you put it. And he's perfectly lovely."

"Well, he got that inclination, or whatever you might call it, from his father who abandoned him and ran off lord only knows where. If that's what those people do—"

"Mum, that's enough. Don't forget, I'm one of 'those people,' too, you know."

Hermione's mum sighed loudly. "We never seem to be able to speak reasonably on this subject, do we?"

"No, indeed, we don't."

"I suppose this means I can't talk you out of spending time with Dean's friends this evening."

"You most certainly cannot."

"I don't understand it, darling. You have nothing in common with this people. They're not—"

"That's simply not true, Mum. Just last night I spent a good half an hour talking with a bloke named Harry — we talked about teaching. I teach world history, he teaches defensive magic. We really connected, simply talking about our students and how best to break down complicated subjects so that they can be readily understood, and how satisfying it is to see someone's face light up when they really, really get it, and I'm sorry, Mum, but our experiences were totally similar. He loves teaching what he knows to young minds, and so do I. We have loads in common."

"If you say so, darling."

"Mum, honestly! Harry is an amazing person, someone Dean really admires. And I met his fiancee Ginny, who is a professional athlete, Mum, as well as her brother Ron, who is a member of a very illustrious police force that's dedicated to protecting magical and non-magical people from the forces of evil. These are good people, Mum. I'm so tired of your attitude."

Hermione's mum let out another long sigh. "Well, all right. You win — for now. But we do hope to see you soon. It's been too long."

"It has, Mum, and I'm sorry if I've been argumentative. It's just that, well, it hurts to hear you say such things. These are people who could have been my friends if only I'd had the chance to pursue a magical education. I wish you could just trust my judgment on this."

"I'll never understand it," her mum said sadly. "You're so bright, so lovely, so well-educated. Why you'd want to waste your energy on—"

"Mum!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Hermione's mum said hurriedly. "Forgive me. I'll give your father your regrets and we'll talk again soon, all right?"

"All right, Mum," Hermione said, adding with emphasis: "I love you, you know."

"I love you too, darling. Please don't forget that."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione hung up the phone in a state of sad frustration. She wondered if she would ever be able to make her parents — particularly her mum — understand her point of view on the magical world. They were so fearful of the unknown — which was understandabe, in a way. And yet, it hurt her so much to think that that very fear, that mistrust, was what stood between her and a world that she might have been a part of. She wondered what her parents would think Ron and shuddered involuntarily at the thought. It was far too early to worry about such things, anyway, or so she told herself. Before she could begin to worry about how her parents might take to Ron, she first had to determine how she herself felt about him. Though she realized, with a sly grin, that she was already inclined to like him very much indeed.

Ron, for his part, awoke abruptly and grabbed the clock at his bedside in a panic. He'd been awake until the wee hours, tossing and turning, and he wasn't quite sure when he'd finally fallen asleep. He was relieved to see, however, that it was only 10 o'clock. In his panic, he'd worried that he might have somehow slept past noon, and there was much to do to be ready to Disapparate to Hermione's by 2:30.

He whistled for Pig. "Hang on, mate," he said as Pig squeaked and fluttered about the windowsill. Pulling a piece of parchment from the top drawer of his desk, Ron scribbled out a note:

 _Hey, Dean —_

 _Quick question for you: Do you happen to know Hermione's favorite flower? And don't worry, mate, my intentions are good._

 _Ron._

Rolling up the parchment, he whistled for Pig again and tied the parchment about his leg. "Take this to Dean Thomas as quick as you can, all right?" he said and watched as Pig fluttered his way into the distance.

After showering and taking special care to give himself a close shave, Ron opened the door to his wardrobe and gave more thought than he had ever given in his life to what he ought to wear. Typically, when he went to a Holyhead Harpies game, he'd haul out a mangy old hoodie that happened to be the exact shade of deep green that matched the Harpies' jerseys. But this somehow didn't seem quite good enough for a first date. Wait, was this a first date? After all, it was Ginny who'd done the inviting, not him. Regardless, he wanted to look his best, and somehow he knew a tattered old hoodie wasn't going to cut it.

"Am I a wizard or aren't I?" he muttered to himself with a grin, and cast his eye at one of his favorite navy blue V-neck jumper.

An hour later — while sporting a V-neck jumper in a newly minted Holyhead green, he was washing up his breakfast dishes and otherwise sussing out whether the house was in need of some tidying. In his heart of hearts, he was pretty certain there was no way in hell that Hermione would wind up here on this particular evening, but he didn't want to leave anything to chance. He Levitated the pile of laundry that had been sitting on his sofa for the past week and moved it upstairs to the master bedroom. A few more tidying charms later and he was satisfied that the house was in decent enough shape that he wouldn't be embarrassed if, by the wildest of chances, he wound up playing host there later that evening.

Just then, Pig flew in through in through the kitchen window and bobbed and weaved through he house until he found Ron in the lounge, reading the Sunday Prophet by the hearth, where he circled his head hooting wildly.

"Slow down, you knuckle-headed bird," Ron said as he reached up and snatched Pig from mid-air. "For Merlin's sake," he muttered, untying the note from Pig's leg before letting him go with a loving scratch to the back of his head.

Ron hurriedly unfurled the note, his heart beating faster in his chest.

 _Oi, Ron —_

 _Hermione's favorite flowers above all are roses, particularly pink ones._

 _I know you're asking for this information with the best of intentions, my friend, and with the full knowledge that if this information eventually leads to her being hurt in any way then I will thump you into the next century, right?_

 _Seriously though, Ron, Hermione is a lifelong friend and a very, very good girl. It looks to me like you understand how special she is, but I just want to be sure. If you're lucky enough to have her like you back, then you are a very lucky bloke indeed._

 _Keep me posted,_

 _Dean._

Ron smiled at this. Good old Dean. He wasn't one to eff with, was he. He pulled out another small piece of parchment and scribbled a quick reply.

 _Dean,_

 _I know precisely what you mean, and you have nothing to worry about. I'm a goner._

 _Ron._

He sent Pig off toward Dean's place again and returned to the Prophet whistling the tune he'd heard and loved from the previous night … something about a woman and crying … sounded vaguely Carribean. He decided he might have to ask Hermione to tell him the name of it someday.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Ron Apparated to Bradbourne Lakes in Sevenoaks at 1:45 p.m. He knew he was outlandishly early, but he had been going slowly mad for the previous hour, pacing back and forth, combing and re-combing his hair and generally working himself into a state. He knew he'd have a bit of a walk ahead of him to get from the Apparition Zone in the park to Hermione's place in Granville Road anyway, and he also reckoned that the exertion would do him some good. He was happy to finally have a real purpose beyond fretting over what to say or how to act when he eventually saw Hermione. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been so self-conscious about seeing a girl.

Besides, the Auror in him craved the extra time to scope out her neighborhood and make sure it was secure. He knew it was hardly his business to care quite so much, and yet he couldn't really stop himself from checking out the perimeter and casting the odd Dark Magic Detection spell here and there just to be sure all was well. He was relieved to find that it was.

Soon enough, he found himself in Hermione's street. A block or so away from her door, he paused to check his appearance (not to mention his breath), reassuring himself that the green jumper was holding its new, magical color well enough. Reassured that he would pass muster — or come as close to it as he possibly could, at least — he pressed onward, looking for her street number. Soon enough, he found himself standing outside her gate. It was a quaint little pile of bricks—an old, two story house that must have been converted into a two-flat quite some time ago, standing in the shade of a giant ash tree. Given that she listed herself as Flat No. 2, he reckoned hers was the upstairs unit, and his eyes trailed the ivy-covered walls upward to the bank of windows lined with butter-yellow curtains and rows of plants.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the iron gate and strolled up to the doorway, looking for and finding her name — "Granger" — written in a neat, slanted script beneath one of two doorbells. "Here goes nothing," he whispered to himself as he pressed the button.

A moment later, a nerve-rattling buzz emanated from within the hallway, and Ron quelled the urge to jump out of his skin enough that he was able to reach for the door handle and push it open without making a berk of himself. He stepped into the hallway and looked up to see Hermione leaning over the stair railing above him, her hair tumbling about her shoulders and her face.

"Hi there," she said shyly.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat and managed to say "Hi" back without his voice cracking, which he told himself was a decent start. "I'm sorry I'm a bit early," he continued.

"No problem," she replied softly. "I'm almost ready — why don't you come on up?"

The truth was, Hermione had been ready for half an hour and had spent the intervening time in a state of nervous anticipation, checking her lipstick in the mirror, rearranging her hair, brushing her teeth for the third time, reapplying her lipstick because the toothbrush had messed it up, dusting off the mantlepiece, moving a plant so that it got a bit more sun, checking her lipstick again before finally forcing herself to sit on the sofa and read — though she couldn't concentrate on the words before her. When the doorbell rang at 2:15, she fairly leapt from her seat.

As Ron climbed the stairs, she retreated to the doorway and stood waiting for him, her heart banging in her chest.

As he rounded the corner and came into view, he pulled a small bouquet of flowers from behind his back — six of the creamiest, softest-colored pink roses she had ever seen, surrounded by sprays of baby's breath, creamy white ranunculus, lily of the valley and two hydrangea blossoms of the lightest green. "Oh, they're absolutely lovely," Hermione said breathlessly, and she genuinely meant it, a smile lighting up her face as she scooped the blooms from Ron's hand.

As she lowered her face into the arrangement to take in the aroma, Ron felt that fluttering in his chest that he was beginning to think he'd never stop feeling when he looked at her — he wasn't one to notice such things usually, but the creamy pink of the roses and the pink of her blush almost matched, and with her hair down and that smile on her lips, he thought she would make a beautiful picture in that moment. He must have forgotten to say anything because soon she looked up at him from the flowers and laughed quietly, shaking him from his thoughts.

"I'll put these in water," she said, stepping back into the entryway to her flat. "Come in — and welcome."

At a loss to know what to do with his hands, he plunged them into his pockets and stepped inside, taking in the scene as Hermione entered the small kitchen to the left that opened up on to a tiny dining area. The lounge to his right was also small but warm and welcoming with sun streaming in from every window, the kind of space he could imagine stretching out in and reading a book. In fact, books were pretty much inescapable in this room — the hearth on one wall was lined on both sides with bookshelves. There was a window seat at the far end of the room that was surrounded by plants but also had a pile of books stacked next to some big, comfy-looking throw pillows and a light green knit throw. A cream-colored overstuffed sofa faced the hearth along with two arm chairs, and in the center of the arrangement as a round ottoman stacked with two or three more books.

Hermione re-emerged from the kitchen with the bouquet in a mercury-glass vase and set it in the center of her little dining table. "There," she said with a satisfied sigh. "That's just the spot for them." Turning the vase one way and then the other, she straightened up and looked at Ron. "Thank you," she said. "You didn't need to do that, but … well … thank you."

All Ron could do was nod. What he wanted to say was, _If pink roses were all it took to make you smile like that, I'd bring you pink roses every day._ Instead, he summoned the presence of mind to at least say, "You're welcome," and then, tipping his head toward the lounge, he said, "I like your place. It's cozy."

"Thank you," she said, knitting her hands together to keep them from trembling. "You should have seen it when I moved in."

"Yeah?"

"I've got before-and-after pictures here somewhere," she said, turning to the small buffet next to the dining table and pulling out a couple of photographs from the top drawer. She stepped toward him and he could smell her aroma — the same flowery, vanilla-y scent he had breathed in the previous night — and he was so enchanted by it that he nearly missed what she said next.

"This is a picture that my father took of me and my mum in the lounge on the day they helped me move in," Hermione said. Ron looked and felt some surprise that Hermione and the woman standing next to her in the image didn't move — something that always startled him about muggle photographs. He couldn't help but laugh out loud at the look on Hermione's mother's face: She was eyeing the floor with an expression of complete disgust.

"I know," Hermione said with a laugh. "I mean, look at the place. The previous occupant had painted the walls a dark brown for some reason, and there was this awful rust-colored indoor-outdoor carpeting on the floor, and the kitchen cabinets were falling apart, and the loo was a disaster. My mother actually cried when they left me here that night."

Ron laughed. "I can't really blame her."

Hermione shrugged. "Well, I saw the potential in the place. It had good bones. Plus, I could afford it, so there was that. Anyway, here's a snap my Dad took on the day I finished building those bookcases." She smiled as she held out a more recent photo of herself standing in the lounge wearing a grungy old sweatshirt and ripped up jeans, a hammer in one hand, the other hand pointing triumphantly at the newly constructed shelving. Even in that disheveled state, Ron thought, she was absolutely stunning.

"You built those yourself?" Ron said.

"Yep," she said proudly. "And for a few weeks, I had the bruises to prove it, but fortunately they're gone now."

"Well, it's amazing what you've done," Ron said, running his eyes over the room, which was a mix of warm, buttery tones of cream, pale yellow and the lightest greens. "It's a great place. It's very you."

Hermione wasn't sure what to say to this, and could feel herself smiling ridiculously at his compliment, so she busied herself with returning the photos to the buffet drawer.

Ron could tell that he'd somehow discomposed her — maybe that last remark was a little too familiar. He wasn't sure. So he decided to seek out safer conversational terrain. And besides, it was almost time to Disapparate over to Holyhead.

"I see Ginny told you the team colors," he said as Hermione turned back toward the lounge.

Hermione looked down at herself and laughed. "It's a good thing I had a green jumper somewhere deep in my wardrobe. This one used to be my Dad's, so it's a bit big on me." Indeed it was, but she looked adorable in it. She'd donned the jumper over a chambray shirt with the collar popped up in back and a pair of white jeans. "I'll have to stock up on more green and gold if I'm going to become a full-time Harpies fan."

"If you've got an orange jumper you could become a fan of my favorite team, the Chudley Cannons," Ron said.

"I'm afraid I don't have any orange," Hermione said with a grin. "Anyway, I'd offer you a drink but I know we have to get going, eh?"

Ron looked at his wristwatch. It was nearly 2:30. "Yeah, it'll only take a minute to get down there, but there should be quite a crowd tonight. The Harpies and the Tornadoes are always a big draw."

"OK, make yourself comfortable for a minute," Hermione said, gesturing toward the lounge, "and I'll be right back. Just have to pull on my boots and find the scarf I was going to wear," she said over her shoulder as she entered her bedroom. "It's not quite Harpies gold, but it's close enough."

Ron sat on the edge of the sofa and looked at the books on the ottoman in front of him — Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice," a biography of Winston Churchill and, propped open as if she had just been reading it, Thomas Malory's "Le Morte d'Arthur." He picked up the book and paged through it, pleasantly surprised to see names like Merlin and the Lady of the Lake scattered throughout the pages. These were stories he'd been taught as a kid as history, but he reckoned that they were thought of more or less as fables in the muggle world. Still, it warmed his heart for some reason to think that maybe Hermione was wanting to know more about her magical roots. He wondered if he could help her with that in some way.

Just then, she emerged from the bedroom wearing dark brown, knee-high riding boots and a small purse of a matching color strung across her chest. Around her neck she wore a long, knitted yellow scarf, which she tossed over her shoulder with a laugh. "I know, these colors look kind of silly," she said. "But when in Rome."

"Not silly at all," Ron said as he rose to his feet. "You're not going to believe some of the get-ups you're about to see down in Holyhead. Folks really try to outdo one another to see who can wear the most outrageous team gear."

"I can't wait to see it all," she said, bouncing on her toes.

"Well then, let's go."

She turned to the buffet next to her and opened the deepest drawer at the bottom, pulling out a wool blanket of dark blue blackwatch tartan. "I thought maybe it would be wise to bring this in case it gets chilly," she said, and Ron nodded his agreement.

"Oh yeah, great idea," he said. The fact was, he and Harry had always relied on Warming charms if the weather turned cold during Ginny's matches, but the possibility of bundling up beneath a blanket with Hermione was too irresistible. He took the blanket from her and draped it over his forearm, which he then raised toward the door. "Shall we?"

He opened the door and held it for her as she passed through it into the hallway, then he stood aside and waited for her to lock up the muggle way. They walked side-by-side down the stairs and he argued with himself about whether he ought to hold her hand, but he decided to play it safe and just walk on.

Hermione stopped on the front stoop to lock the outer door, and Ron proceeded down the two steps to the sidewalk and turned to look up at her. When she finished locking up, she took one step down and then paused, surprised to find that they were just about at eye-level to one another, and she noticed that his copper-colored hair, shimmering in the dappled sunlight filtering through the ash tree, contrasted becomingly with his kelly green jumper. He was stunning, and she was gripped with a sudden and almost frightening urge to kiss him in that moment, but she tamped that impulse down. Instead, she stepped down to the sidewalk and, tipping her face downward shyly, she led him to the spot behind the house where Dean had always Disapparated with her. Disapparating had seemed like such advanced magic to her, she doubted she would ever be able to manage it herself. She usually had to force herself to trust Dean enough to Side-Along with him without fretting about it, but she felt no such fear or uncertainty with Ron. Maybe that was just because she'd Side-Alonged enough times now that she was over her trepidation, but she liked to think it was also because there was something about Ron that made her feel safe. Regardless, she felt a shimmer of warmth run through her body again when he silently held out his hand and she placed hers in his.

"Ready?" he said. He knew she was, but in truth he was merely biding his time, enjoying the feel of their joined hands. He wondered if she felt it, too, that surge of warmth that happened whenever he touched her. He thought it would be weird to ask her about it. Instead, he rubbed the back of her hand gently with his thumb and waited for her answer.

A moment later, she nodded, and he turned on the spot, carrying them away from Sevenoaks.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

When they landed at Holyhead, Hermione stumbled slightly and Ron, without thinking, wrapped his arms around her to steady her, pulling her close until her dizziness subsided. She rested her hands on his biceps as he tightened his grip on her elbows, and though she wasn't entirely in charge of her faculties at that moment, she noted how firm and powerful his muscles felt within her grasp. If they remained locked together in that way a bit longer than was absolutely necessary, neither seemed inclined to mention it.

"I'm so sorry," she finally sputtered through her embarrassment, unable to raise her eyes above his collarbone for fear that he would somehow discover how very much she enjoyed being in his embrace. "I guess I just got a bit lightheaded."

"Totally understandable," Ron said, tipping his head until she met his eye. "It happens even to experienced wizards. No worries."

She looked up at him then and was comforted by his warm smile. "Thank you," she said softly. He reluctantly let go of her then but slid his right hand down from her elbow to her hand, which he grasped firmly in both of his.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Good. Let's get you a cuppa. I find that always helps with Disapparition Dizziness," he said and, still holding her hand, he led her out of the Apparition Zone where they'd just landed — a clearing in the middle of a forest — and in the direction of the sound of a boisterous crowd and festive music, a noise that grew louder with each step they took.

Soon they stepped out of the trees and into a wide-open field packed with a throng of hundreds of people wearing the green and gold of the Holyhead Harpies as well as the sky blue and navy of the Tutshill Tornados. Above the bustle of people milling about, drinking, laughing and eating were the honking notes of a small brass band playing Harpies fight songs. The delicious smell of dozens of barbecue grills wafted over the crowd, as merchants threaded their way through the mass of witches and wizards selling all manner of Harpies and Tornados paraphernalia — light-up hats, glow-in-the-dark pennants, T-shirts and even toy-sized, flying replicas of each team's lineup. Ron happily pointed out the miniature version of Ginny that was zooming around one concessionaire's head, her flaming red hair blowing in the breeze, which drew an amazed laugh from Hermione.

"I've never seen anything like that," Hermione said.

Ron smiled down at her, thinking that if she was amazed by a toy version of the Holyhead Harpies, she was about to be blown away by the real thing.

They came upon a tent at the far end of the field — just outside the stadium — and stepped inside where they found, to Hermione's further amazement, a full-fledged tea shop not unlike the one she frequented each morning in Sevenoaks. Ron ordered them two cups of Earl Gray, which was served to them in fancy China tea cups, again to her surprise. She downed her tea quickly, however, because she was quite eager to get inside the stadium and take it all in.

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Ron couldn't help but see every mundane detail around him anew, as if through her eyes. There was so much he took for granted that would no doubt seem mysterious and fascinating to her, and he was filled with a sudden longing to share it all with her — not just an everyday Quidditch match, but everything, the entire magical world. He felt his pulse quicken at the thought of it, but there wasn't time to dwell on it much. The match was about to begin.

"I don't know about you, but I'm a bit peckish," he said as he opened the tent flap for her and led her to toward the stadium. "They serve a great Welsh pasty, and those giant, doughy pretzels inside."

"Sounds wonderful," Hermione said. "I could go for one of those."

"I could go for ten of those," Ron replied, and she laughed as he took her hand and led her past the queue of people waiting to enter the stadium.

Ron led Hermione approached a gate beneath a banner that read "VIP section," and the witch standing duty there in a tight and quite revealing green-and-gold outfit smiled widely and waved the gate open with her wand. "Good afternoon Mr. Weasley," she cooed with a flirtatious up-and-down glance at him, and Hermione involuntarily squeezed Ron's hand before she had a chance to catch herself. "Mr. Potter is already in the box waiting for you," the witch continued before shooting an appraising glare at Hermione. "Enjoy the match," she said over Hermione's head.

"Thanks, Hortense," Ron answered casually and allowed Hermione to pass through the gate first before following along and taking her hand again.

He looked out the corner of his eye at Hermione, embarrassed that Hortense had been so openly flirting with him — as she always did — but not quite knowing what to say or do about it. He reckoned the best thing would be to act like it didn't happen and hope Hermione wouldn't get the wrong idea. Even after all these years, he still wasn't altogether comfortable with his celebrity status. In fact, it had only made him wary that birds were interested in him for all the wrong reasons. Stealing another sideways glance at Hermione as they approached the stairway to their box, he was pleasantly surprised to find that she was looking up at him through her lashes, and he reflexively smiled at her and squeezed her hand.

At the top of the stairs, the view of the entire, deep green Quidditch pitch and the vast arena surrounding it opened itself up to Hermione, and she audibly gasped at the sight. Fans were already cheering wildly and the match hadn't even begun.

Harry's voice rung out from their left, and they turned to see him standing and waving to them in their box seats, perched on the very edge of the grandstand exactly halfway between the two massive goal posts.

"Oi, you two! The opening ceremony is about to start!" he shouted.

Ron waved back and led Hermione down the stairs and then allowed her to slide into the seat next to Harry, who gave her another friendly peck on the cheek as if he'd known her all his life. He gave Ron's hand a hearty shake and the three of them settled down with Hermione in the middle, but not before Ron folded the thick woolen blanket he'd been carrying and placed it on Hermione's seat. "We can pull it out later if you get cold," he said.

"I have to warn you that I'm probably going to be asking a lot of really stupid questions as the match wears on," Hermione said as she sank into the comfy seat.

"There's no such thing as a stupid question, as every teacher knows," Harry said with a smile. "OK, so, here's the main thing you need to know."

Before he could say more, the Harpies theme song came blaring out from above their heads and the crowd went absolutely berserk. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for the 374th annual matchup between the Holyhead Harpies and the Tutshill Tornados. Are! You! Ready?!"

The crowd, which was now in its feet, screamed back "Yes! We! Are!" in unison, and with that, the Tornadoes flew onto the field, being introduced to the crowd one-by-one by the match announcers. As the Tornados players flew past their box, Ron and Harry told Hermione a bit about each — their records, their specialty, that sort of thing — and Hermione took it all in with mute fascination. What amazed her most of all was the flying itself. She'd never seen anyone fly on a broom before, and she couldn't wrap her mind around how it was even done. But her thoughts were drowned out by the roar of the crowd, which went up several decibels, when the Holyhead Harpies took the field. The team did their customary flight around the stadium, waving to the crowd as they were introduced, and Harry, Ron and Hermione hooted and waved as Ginny flew past them, blowing a kiss to Harry before giving a wink to Ron and Hermione.

The view from the VIP box was indeed splendid, and Ron and Harry both immensely enjoyed sharing their Quidditch knowledge with such an enthusiastic student. They patiently explained each method of scoring, the various penalties, and even the history of the game as the match progressed, with Ron all the while ordering pasties, butterbeers and popcorn for the three of them. Hermione marveled at how delicious the food was — particularly the pasties — while remarking at how famously dreadful the fare was at most muggle sporting events.

"Well, save some room," said Harry, "because Ginny and I usually like to grab a little dinner in town after her home games, and you two are welcome to join us, of course."

Hermione looked to Ron who, though chewing a doughy pretzel, gave an enthusiastic nod.

Harry leaned over and gave Hermione a nudge with his elbow. "You might be wondering how he could possibly consume that much and still eat dinner later. All I can say is he's a bottomless pit."

"Oi!" Ron shouted playfully between bites before waving to the butterbeer man and ordering another round.

As the match progressed, Ron leaned in often to explain the intricacies of the game to Hermione, affording him an opportunity to breathe in the aroma of her perfume again and again. Hermione, meanwhile, savored how animated he was as he described the game, and she admired the glow of pride that sparkled in his eyes whenever his sister did something especially spectacular. As they talked, Hermione learned that Ron and Harry had both played Quidditch for their house team. "Ron still plays, actually," said Harry, who then stood to cheer as Ginny scored.

Hermione's brows shot up and she turned to Ron to say, "You do?"

Ron shrugged, grimacing slightly as his ears heated up. "Yeah, well, it's nothing like this, mind," he said. "It's a Friday night recreational league — just for fun. Nobody takes it too seriously, but we're still pretty competitive about it all the same. Blokes will be blokes, I guess."

"Ron's being modest," Harry said, taking a sip of his butterbeer. "He's one of the best Keepers Gryffindor ever had. He just doesn't want to say so."'

"Really!" Hermione breathed, but before she could inquire any further, the Harpies scored again and Ron and Harry's attention was drawn away.

The match was a close one right up until the very end, when Holyhead's Seeker found the Snitch and sent the stadium into even louder shouts of jubilation than Hermione had previously thought possible. She'd never been much for sport before, but she found the match tremendously interesting. It didn't hurt, of course, that she'd had two such attentive teachers — one in particular who seemed to take it as his personal mission to answer her every question.

When the game was over, Ginny did another flyaround with her teammates, throwing a special kiss to Harry before they swooped downward toward their dugout at the far side of the pitch.

"Come on, guys — let's go wait for Ginny outside the Harpies locker room," Harry called out. Ron and Harry formed a sort of barrier for Hermione against the crush of fans moving in the opposite direction, Ron keeping a tight hold on Hermione's hand all the while, occasionally even reaching back when necessary and wrapping an arm around her, pulling her close to him to prevent her from being crushed by the sea of jubilant Holyhead fans.

The crowd thinned out the closer they got to the locker rooms, and Ron eventually satisfied himself with merely directing Hermione with a gentle hand placed on the small of her back. Eventually they made their way to the staging area outside the locker rooms, where the sporting press awaited Ginny and her teammates and demanded statements before they were able to break away for the evening.

"It was really a team win," Ginny said to a Daily Prophet reporter whose Quick-Quotes Quill was scribbling away furiously. "We just tried to do what we always do," she continued mechanically, shooting a wink to Harry as the three of them came into view. "We take care of the fundamentals — covering the goal, passing effectively, clearing the way for the Seeker. Other than that, we let the game come to us and try not to force anything."

With that, Ginny excused herself from the gathered throng of reporters and made her way to Harry, Ron and Hermione, giving Harry a passionate smack on the lips before letting herself be engulfed in a giant bear hug from her brother and then giving Hermione a gentle peck on the cheek. "Let's go, you lot — I'm positively famished," she beamed, letting Harry lead her away from the press pen and toward the exits. Ron turned to Hermione and offered her his arm and they followed a few paces behind Harry and Ginny, who were walking and laughing with their arms wrapped tightly around one another.

Ron and Hermione eventually caught up and the foursome crossed the main road, arriving at a small candlelit restaurant in the shadow of the stadium.

"Mees Weasley, Meester Potter," said the dark-haired, olive-skinned maitre d', bowing once, twice and three times as he led Ginny and Harry to their especially reserved table inside the actual kitchen of the restaurant. "Ah, Meester Weasley," the maitre d' added as he spied Ron behind Ginny, "such an honor to have you and your ladyfriend as well," he said with a small bow to Hermione, and he bustled ahead of them to add two extra chairs to Harry and Ginny's regular table before either had a chance to set him straight on that whole "ladyfriend" business — even if they'd wanted to.

As the foursome passed through the restaurant, Holyhead fans stopped Ginny seeking autographs, but Hermione was impressed to see that Harry and Ron drew their fair share of admirers as well, signing autographs here and there though Ron seemed especially uncomfortable with all the fuss. Eventually they pressed their way through the swinging doors that separated the dining room from the kitchen and settled around the table set aside for them.

Hermione was surprised to find that the maitre d' didn't bother to take the group's orders but rather simply Levitated platter after platter of succulent food onto their table, from squid sauteed in olive oil and lemon to grilled asparagus and skirt steak marinated in garlic and herbs, all accompanied by carafe after carafe of the most refreshing sangria she'd ever tasted, and after a course of two she found that she was quite happily feeling no pain. The boys seemed lost in Quidditch talk, though Hermione was pleased to see that Ron couldn't keep his attention away from her for more than a minute or two before turning toward her and shooting her a blazingly bright grin.

Ginny by then had pulled her close and was speaking to her quite conspiratorially in an undertone, her cheek pressed against Hermione's. "I think my brother likes you," she whispered in Hermione's ear, causing Hermione to blush beet red and pull Ginny closer, the better to hide her face from Ron's.

"Do you really think so?" Hermione whispered back, causing Ginny to laugh out loud.

"Oi, what are you two on about?" Harry half shouted over the clatter of the kitchen.

"Not a thing," Ginny said in mock innocence, turning to Hermione to shrugged melodramatically, looking left and then right before collapsing in giggles with Ginny.

"Hey, girls, no gossiping — that is, unless you're willing to let us in on it," Harry continued.

Ginny wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulder and said, "We were only talking about Dean and agreeing that we can't understand why he's still single," Ginny said tauntingly, causing Harry to reach out, pull her to him, and kiss her firmly on the lips.

"That's why," he said, and Ginny sighed theatrically.

"That's why indeed," she said, straightening up and finding that both Ron and Hermione were blushing a bit at their open display of affection.

Looking to change the mood, Ginny decided to satisfy her own curiosity about Hermione. "So," she began, reaching for her glass of wine, "your parents are muggles, yes?"

Hermione, who was mid-sip at that moment, quickly swallowed her mouthful of sangria to answer Ginny's question. "Yes, they're as muggle-y as you can get, I think. They're dentists, both of them, and as far as I can tell there's not a magical person anywhere on either of their family trees. Quite strange, really."

"When did you work it out that you were magical, then?" Harry asked, opening up a dinner roll and slathering it with butter.

Hermione looked down at her plate and gathered her thoughts. "I didn't know, really," she answered slowly. "I mean, I always knew I was different. Well, to be honest, it was more like I thought there was something wrong with me. Odd things would happen around me that no one could explain, especially when I was feeling strong emotions. My mum would send me to my room without supper and I would make it rain in the kitchen, for instance, or a classmate would be mean to me in the playground and the next thing I knew they were breaking out in a rash. That sort of thing. I didn't realize I was doing it at first, but my parents started to put two-and-two together by the time I was well into primary school."

"You went to primary school with Dean, yeah?" Ron asked, leaning toward her.

She smiled at him and nodded. "We were the very best of mates until the time we both turned 11 — his birthday and mine are in the same week, believe it or not. Anyway, we both got letters from Hogwarts at that time. Of course, Dean went. I didn't."

"And why is that?" Ginny asked, ignoring the small kick that Ron sent her way beneath the table.

"Ginny," he added harshly beneath his breath.

Hermione rested a hand on Ron's forearm and, to his delight, she left it there. "It's all right," she said, looking into his eyes. "It's a fair question, and I can't blame any of you for wondering."

"I'm sorry," Ginny said, laying a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "I didn't mean to pry."

"It's OK," Hermione answered instantly and sincerely, turning to Ginny and giving her a tender smile. "I actually really want to talk about it."

"OK," Ginny answered with a matching smile, though Ron interrupted before Hermione could continue.

"Only if you really want to," he said solemnly, and she pressed her hand against his forearm even more firmly while giving him a gentle nod.

"My parents, you see, had no idea what magic was, or that it even existed," Hermione began, turning her eyes back to Ginny. "When, well, odd things started happening around me, they kept finding excuses to explain it away. They refused to believe that there might be something different about me."

"Sounds familiar," Harry said with a mirthless laugh, and Hermione sent a sympathetic smile his way.

"Precisely," she said. "Anyway, it got to a point where, really, I didn't have any friends in the muggle world except for Dean. And then, when we both got our Hogwarts letters at about the same time, things started to make sense — at least for me. I was relieved to think that maybe I wasn't such a weirdo. Maybe the things I capable of doing could be explained. But my parents were so freaked out by the very idea of me being magical — nevermind the notion of sending me to a magical boarding school — that they rejected it immediately, no matter how much I begged. And I did beg."

Hermione sniffled just then, and Ron acted on instinct, slipping his arm out from under her grasp and circling it around the back of her chair, pulling her closer to him with one swoop.

Resisting the urge to lean against him, Hermione smiled up at him and then directed her gaze back to Harry, then Ginny. "I don't want you to think I was entirely miserable. I wasn't. I'm an only child, so that was a bit lonely sometimes, but I had my parents and I knew they loved me very much. And I had Dean, and he gave me a glimpse of the magical world and shared what he could with me. But honestly, I have never felt like I quite belonged in either place. And I think that's why I like teaching teenagers so much. They're misfits, too, all of them — and I can help them discover who they really are, who they're meant to be. That part of my life is really, really satisfying."

After another round of sangria followed by a pot of coffee, Harry and Ron split the check and the foursome parted ways on the street outside the restaurant. "I hope we get to spend more time together very soon," Ginny said as she kissed Hermione on both cheeks.

"So do I," said Hermione. "Thank you for tonight — I enjoyed it more than I can say."

"We'll do it again soon," Harry added, pulling Hermione in for a hug and another kiss on the cheek before punching Ron on the shoulder and giving him a firm handshake.

Ginny and Harry Disapparated away then, leaving Ron and Hermione alone for the first time since the afternoon.

"Ready to head home?" Ron asked.

She nodded and happily put her hand in his, and a moment later they were standing in the alleyway behind her flat on Granville Road. He'd be damned if he was going to let go of her hand now, but he wasn't quite sure whether he ought to press his luck beyond that point. Instead, he allowed her to lead him to the front door of the house and let go of her hand reluctantly when it became clear she needed it in order to fish her keys out of her purse.

"Do you have your wand with you?" Ron asked.

"As a matter of fact I do," she answered, pulling Dean's old hand-me-down from the depths of her purse.

"Why not try an Alomohora on that lock?"

"Alomo-what?" Hermione said, her brow furrowed.

"Here," he answered, guiding her wand hand toward the lock and repeating the incantation. "Alomohora," he said, and she mimicked his words and movements a second later.

The lock moved, but only a fraction — not enough to open the door. Hermione looked visibly disappointed.

"No worries. Nobody gets it right the first time," he said, though he was making an inner resolution to do something about that mangy old wand of hers. "I'd be happy to teach you more if you'll let me."

Hermione smiled. "I'd like that very much," she said.

"OK, then," he said tentatively, studying her face in the warm light of the wall sconce next to her door. "Could I … you wouldn't mind if I rang up you sometime, would you?"

Shaking her head, Hermione reached into her purse again and found the little notepad where she'd scribbled her address just a night before. She wrote down a series of numbers. "You know how to use a muggle telephone, yes?"

"'Course I do," he said, though he actually wasn't certain.

"OK, well, here's my number. And, well … thank you so much, Ron. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed myself tonight."

"Me, too," he said sincerely.

She stood looking up at him for another second, then two, before reaching for the door handle and apparently deciding it was best to simply call it a night. But she gave him a warm smile as she stepped inside. "Good night," she whispered, peering out at him as she slowly closed the door, the tartan blanket clutched close to her chest.

"Good night," Ron answered quietly.

Ron's heart was beating so loudly in his chest, he wondered if she'd been able to hear it. Stepping down the stairs, he looked upward until he saw the lights in her window turn on. Before returning to the alley to Apparate away, he cast a few Auror Department-approved protective charms over the house and began counting the minutes until he could see Hermione again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Ron made it through most of the next day managing to combat the urge to dial Hermione's number. Being busy with further investigation of the smuggling case certainly helped. But no matter how absorbing the case was, Hermione was never far from his thoughts, and the piece of paper bearing her telephone number was burning a hole in his pocket. His brothers had always told him that if a girl gave him her telephone number, timing was of paramount importance. "Do not — I repeat — do NOT call her the next day," Charlie once said during one of the boys' sleepovers in the treehouse behind The Burrow years and years earlier. "Give it at least a day if not more."

"But hang on," Ron had said, rubbing the nape of his neck. "If she gives you her number, then she wants you to ring her up, yeah?"

"Precisely," said Fred.

"So you wouldn't be bothering her by calling, would you?"

"That's not the point," Fred answered. "Of course she wants you to ring her up. And of course, you want to ring her up. But you don't want her to know that."

Seeing the confused grimace on Ron's face, George cackled, "Don't be a prat, Ronniekins. You don't want to show all your cards too soon. Gotta keep 'em guessing."

"Look," Charlie said, "the last thing you want to do is let a bird know how interested you are. If you do, then she gets the upper hand. And if that happens, you're at her mercy."

"And then there's the opposite problem," George continued. "If you come on too strong, then you might scare her off."

This and every other mind-boggling conversation Ron had ever had with his older brothers about romance echoed through his head all day. _Keep 'em guessing. Don't show your cards too soon. Get the upper hand. Don't come on too strong._ He'd never really given much thought to his brothers' advice before because, frankly, he'd never met a girl he cared enough about for such tactics to matter. In the past, if a bird was interested, Ron let her take the lead and played along until things ran their natural course — usually a few dates, a snogging session or two and, if all went reasonably well, a shag, but eventually he would lose interest. He envied the special connection that couples like Harry and Ginny and Bill and Fleur had, but he was starting to wonder if that sort of relationship just wasn't in his future. Every girl he met seemed interested in him, his money and his fame more or less as a trophy. He was a celebrity who could get a girl to the front of the line at clubs and impress her friends by picking up the tab. They didn't seem terribly interested in talking about their backgrounds, their beliefs, their world, or even the ideals that had made him a so-called "war hero" in the first place. He didn't necessarily mind, but he was beginning to despair that he could ever find anyone who didn't see him as anything more than the guy in the photo spread from last month's Witch Weekly.

These were the thoughts swirling in his head as the hour grew later — it was well past 7 p.m., and he was the only Auror still plowing through paperwork in the office. _Keep 'em guessing. Don't show your cards too soon._ In frustration, he pulled the little slip of paper from his pocket and read Hermione's number again, running his finger over her neat and slanted script. Dammit, he wanted to ring her. Why shouldn't he ring her? His brothers' advice didn't apply to a girl like Hermione, did it. And besides, where had crap advice like that gotten him so far? Nowhere good, really.

He stomped through the darkened office and into a glassed-in booth that contained a desk outfitted with an array of the muggle-style telephones that Aurors sometimes used for surveillance purposes. With his annoyance with himself and his brothers crowding his thoughts, he didn't have time to be nervous until he actually picked up the receiver and stopped to try to remember precisely how to use the bloody thing. He'd learned during Auror training not to shout into it, but it had been a while since he'd done more than that. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the buttons that spelled out Hermione's number and hoped for the best.

Hermione, as it happened, was at home that evening grading papers. She'd meant to get this particular task done during her lunch hour, but she was so distracted by thoughts of her whirlwind weekend that she found concentrating difficult. By 7 o'clock, she was nearly finished with her work and was looking forward to watching a bit of telly and then turning in early. There was one thing she was quite certain of: No matter how much she wished otherwise, she would most definitely not be hearing from Ron this evening. Blokes never called the first night after receiving a girl's number. That, she thought with a smirk, seemed to be some sort of iron-clad rule with them.

Just past 7, the telephone rang and Hermione set aside her work on the dining room table and strode to the kitchen, mentally bracing herself for another potential run-in with her mother, who would no doubt be curious to know how her Sunday night outing went with "those people."

Trying her best to sound pleasant despite her annoyance, Hermione picked up the phone and sat atop the kitchen counter.

"Hello?" she said with a roll of the eyes.

"Erm, hello there, Hermione. It's Ron."

She was so startled that she was propelled off the counter almost as if she'd sat on a hot stove. "Oh!" she said breathlessly, then kicked herself for sounding like such an airhead. "I mean hi. I mean, it's nice to hear from you."

"Thanks, well, yeah. Hope I didn't ring you up at a bad time."

"Not at all," Hermione said, taking a breath to try to steady the wobble in her voice. "I was just grading some papers — just finishing up, actually. My kids took a big test last week and it's taken a long time to slog through them all."

"Oh yeah? What was the test on?"

"Oh, I just finished teaching them all about The Blitz during World War II and how children were so often sent away from metropolitan areas like London to live in the countryside to escape the bombing," Hermione said, warming to her subject. "The students really got into it — so many of them have relatives who were alive at that time. I've just been so impressed with the essays they've written about it, and their reflections on war in general. It's taken me longer than it normally would to grade this round of tests, but that's just because I've enjoyed reading them so much."

"That's tremendous. I think kids really do get it more than we think sometimes," Ron said. "Harry and I spoke at Hogwarts a few years back about the wizarding war, and I remember we were worried going in about how to present it to them — you know, whether or not to downplay the violence, which could be so senseless and horrible at times. And it turned out, we maybe didn't need to fret about it quite so much. One kid raised his hand and said, 'Yes, so many terrible things happened and war is awful, of course, but it was all for a cause and we're better off for it.' And that's really stuck with me ever since."

"So true," Hermione said thoughtfully as she leaned against the kitchen counter and then scooted herself back up to sit atop it again. "You'd like to think violence wouldn't be necessary to achieve those positive ends, but sometimes people aren't offered many good alternatives."

Ron sank onto the office chair next to the phone and put his feet up on the desk. "That's one thing I always admired about Harry during the war. He proved that sometimes there really are alternatives to violence. His first move in any fight was to disarm his opponent with a spell called Expelliarmus. He didn't really think about it, mind, it was just instinct — so much so that it sort of became his signature move. He just naturally looked to try to disarming someone before he'd do anything more drastic than that."

Ron became so lost in the conversation, trading stories and ideas, that it wasn't until the Ministry's cleaning squad arrived in the Auror office that he realized an entire hour had gone by. "Blimey," he said, "it's well past 8 o'clock, isn't it? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to eat up so much of your evening."

"Not at all," said Hermione, a tad disappointed that perhaps the phone call might be coming to an end. "I don't get to talk about my students very often, and your work sounds absolutely fascinating."

Ron smiled into the phone, wishing he could Apparate himself over there and kiss her senseless. He'd managed to break his brothers' don't-ring-her-up-on-the-first-day rule; he reckoned showing up on her doorstep would be pushing his luck a bit too far. "I have to be honest: My work really is interesting. I couldn't do it otherwise. I'm afraid I don't have the stick-to-it-iveness that you do."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh at this. "So says the pureblood who helped his best friend defeat Voldemort," she said.

"What does my blood status have to do with it?" Ron asked, a bit astonished.

"Everything!" Hermione replied hotly. "I may be a newcomer to your world, but from what little I've heard and read, it seems clear that purebloods could easily have sat out the war. You didn't, though. You did what was right, even though it was the hard choice."

She caught herself then, realizing that she'd essentially been arguing with him, which hardly seemed polite under the circumstances. She was relieved, however, to hear his laughter through the line.

"All right, you win," Ron said. "I'm bloody amazing."

"Oh dear," Hermione said with a wry grin, "I seem to have created a monster."

Just then the cleaning lady knocked on the door to the glassed-in booth where Ron had been sitting for above an hour, and she looked fairly annoyed.

"I'm getting the bum's rush from the office now, I'm afraid," Ron said with a jaunty tone that belied his disappointment. "If I don't get out of here soon, the cleaning crew will hex me."

"That will never do, will it," Hermione said. "You wouldn't look very good wearing gills or covered in warts."

"No indeed," Ron said. Waving the cleaning lady away, he dropped his feet from the desk while twirling the phone cord nervously in his fingers: "So, erm, the real reason I called was to see if maybe you might be free this weekend — Saturday afternoon, to be precise."

"I suppose I shouldn't admit this but, as it happens, I am free this Saturday," she said. She realized that her Mum had talked about wanting to go shopping together that day, but she quickly told herself she'd have to let her Mum down easy.

"Good," Ron said. "I have something in mind, but I'd rather keep it a bit of a secret until then."

"Well, that's intriguing. Are you going to at least give me a hint?"

"Nope."

"Oh, come on. You've at least got to tell me how I ought to dress. Formal? Semi-formal? Casual?"

"Casual will do," Ron answered, "but that's all I'm saying."

"You're mean," she said teasingly. "You're a very mean person."

"So I've been told."

"Be that as it may, I suppose I will entertain your invitation and plan to be properly and casually dressed," she said in mock officiousness. "What time should I expect you?"

"How does noon sound?"

"Perfect," she said.

"Good."

There was a long pause as both of them smiled into the telephone. Neither wanted to end the conversation, but it seemed they'd reached that inevitable point where one of them would have to be the first to hang up.

"Until Saturday, then," Hermione said.

"Until Saturday," Ron answered. "Have an excellent week."

"You, too."

Saturday couldn't come soon enough for either of them, and Ron cursed himself over and over as the week wore on for not thinking to ask her to get together with him on, say, Wednesday or Thursday. But he figured Saturday was a better day for a date at such an early stage and forced himself to live with his decision.

No matter how much he wanted to do so, he fought back the urge to call her every night that week. No matter how bone-headed he'd decided his brothers' advice was, even he had to admit that there was a limit to how much he could say or do at this point without coming on too strong. So he busied himself with the smuggling case, which was taking some unexpected turns and was proving to be more wide-reaching than either he or his supervisor, Brocklehurst, had thought, and he counted the hours until Saturday noon.

Hermione was fortunate that early May was always an especially busy time at Sevenoaks School, as her students were working on final projects and preparing for end-of-term exams. So she had plenty to keep her mind occupied throughout the week, though she too wished that she could somehow make the time go faster. At moments like these, she thought ruefully, it would have been nice to have a real, true best girlfriend — someone who knew the great secret of her magical abilities — but alas, she didn't, and therefore she had no one to pour her heart out to and share her excitement over this new and remarkable man in her life. Ginny entered her thoughts, bringing on a soft pang to Hermione's chest. She had a hunch that Ginny would have been such a friend if circumstances had been different. Could she be such a friend in the future? It was too early to count on it, but Hermione allowed herself to hope.

oooOOOooo

 _Stay tuned — and thanks for reading! Please review!_

 _Holly._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Hermione spent Saturday morning deciding what to wear — and then changing her mind, and then changing her mind again. By the time 11:45 rolled around, she had finally settled on black ankle-length jeans, a light grey jumper with a small string of pearls, and a pair of black ballet flats. Packing a pair of big black sunglasses in her little red-leather purse, she told herself that she may just have achieved the Audrey Hepburn vibe she had been going for — or at least she very much hoped so. The weather had remained stubbornly cool, so she looped a grey-blue cotton scarf several times around her neck and forced herself to wait patiently for the sound of the doorbell.

After 10 seemingly interminable minutes, the bell rang and Hermione gave herself one last once-over in the hallway mirror, pinching her cheeks before pressing the buzzer and opening the door to await Ron's arrival at the top of the stairs.

When her eyes finally met his, she couldn't have suppressed her smile if she tried. He quite literally took her breath away for a moment, arriving in her doorway as he did in a navy-blue linen button-down and a jean jacket atop a pair of well-worn grey trousers and dark blue canvas trainers. Without saying a word, he produced another small bouquet from behind his back, this one a simple arrangement of light pink roses surrounded by wisps of lavender and greenery.

"You're spoiling me," she said wistfully as she accepted his gift, the increasingly familiar warmth spreading through her hand as her fingers brushed his.

"I don't think that's possible, honestly," he said with a sincere smile.

She could think of nothing to say to this, so overwhelmed was she by his presence, that she simply backed into the flat while holding the door open wide in silent invitation, and Ron followed her as far as the entryway. "I'll just be a moment," she said as she stepped into the kitchen and filled a small green ceramic vase with water.

"Thank you again," she said as she placed the flowers on the counter. "Would you care for a cup of tea before we go?"

"Normally I would say yes, but we have a schedule to adhere to Miss Granger, so I must insist that we be on our way," he said with a dramatic look at his watch.

"By all means," she responded in a similarly playful fashion, picking up her small red purse and slinging it across her chest. "Lead on, Mr. Weasley."

With that, he pulled the door open for her and followed her into the hallway, where she paused and extracted her wand from her purse. Closing the door and pointing her wand at the lock, she whispered, "Colloportus," and the lock made a reassuring click.

Hermione bit her lip and looked up to Ron with a jaunty grin. "I've been practicing," she said.

He clapped his hands appreciatively. "Bravo!"

"Want to see it again?" she said, practically skipping down the stairs ahead of him to the front entrance. One "Colloportus" later and Ron finally got a taste of what he was looking for, as she daintily put her hand in his on the front steps and allowed him to lead her to the alleyway where they Side-Alonged to their destination.

They landed in a part of London Hermione had never seen before — just outside a rather grotty-looking pub with a sign that read "The Leaky Cauldron."

"You OK?" Ron asked with a squeeze of her hand, remembering how dizzy she'd gotten in Holyhead.

"Oh yes, quite fine this time," she said.

"Good," he replied. "Wouldn't want a repeat of last time," he said, though in his heart of hearts he wouldn't have minded having an excuse to hold her in his arms again. Looking up at the Leaky, he held the door open for Hermione and followed her in. "This pub is the gateway of sorts to a wizarding district called Diagon Alley," he explained in a near-whisper as she turned to wait for him. "Have you heard of it?"

He needn't have asked, for her eyes had lit up in excited recognition. "Of course I've heard of it! Dean's talked about bringing me here so many times and showing me around, but we never got around to it for one reason or another."

"Well, great. I thought we might grab a little lunch first and then I could give you a bit of a tour. The only restraint on our time is this: We have an appointment somewhere very special at 2 o'clock."

Hermione bounced on her toes. "Oh, where? The curiosity has been driving me mad all week!"

"That's for me to know and you to find out," he said as he reached for her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow as he planted his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket.

"Are you sure there isn't some way I can persuade you?" she replied, looking up at him through her lashes and surprising even herself with her boldness.

Ron's breath caught in his chest but he recovered quickly. "I'm a professional Auror, Miss Granger," he said, leaning toward her for a moment before straightening up again. "I've been trained to withstand all manner of interrogation," he added with a wiggle of his eyebrows, causing Hermione to erupt in quite uncharacteristic giggles. "We can come back here to the Leaky for a drink later, but let's scope out some different options for lunch," Ron continued, pulling Hermione toward the back wall which opened, quite to her surprise, to reveal a cobblestoned square bustling with people. "See ya later, Hannah," Ron said with a wave to the young woman wiping down the bar.

"Later, mate," the woman replied, smiling widely.

"You met Neville Longbottom up at the Hogshead a few weeks ago, yeah?" Ron asked as Hermione fell into step beside him. Looking up into his face, she nodded, though she was mildly distracted by the feeling of walking side-by-side so close to him. "Well, the gal behind the bar back there at the Leaky is Neville's girlfriend, Hannah Abbott. I think he's thinking about popping the question."

"Really?"

"Yeah, don't say anything. He's hoping to surprise her. But it'll be no surprise actually when it finally happens. They've been dating for a while. She's a great girl."

"Neville seems nice, too."

"He's the best. Super-smart. Really into Herbology."

They chatted amiably that way about Ron's various schoolmates as they strolled around the main square, eventually stopping at Sampson's-in-the-Strand, a little wizarding boulangerie that specialized in fresh baked breads as well as sandwiches, soups and salads. Everything in the place was white — whitewashed walls, white-tiled floors, and travertine marble tabletops, and Hermione couldn't help but notice how frankly colorful Ron looked against such a setting. His copper-hued hair and navy blue shirt stood out so becomingly against such a bright backdrop, and she found herself unable at times to maintain her train of thought as they settled in to look at their menus because he was just so, well … well, he was just so handsome. She silently admonished herself for being unable to think of a more creative word for it.

Ron was lost in similar thoughts as he stole glances at Hermione from over his menu. She was so pretty in such a genuine way, and everything about her, from the dainty way she ate to the way she moved her hands when she talked, seemed graceful and unassuming. For the hundredth time, he wondered what it might have been like if she'd been at Hogwarts with him. Would she have been in Gryffindor? Would they have been friends? Would they have eaten together like this in the Great Hall, or would she have traveled in different circles altogether? He chased these ideas away, noticing all over again they they only tended to make him feel a mite depressed — and what good was it to be depressed when he finally had Hermione there with him after nearly a week of daydreaming about her?

He couldn't know, of course, that Hermione frequently entertained similar thoughts as their lunch progressed. She snapped herself out of it, oddly enough, by focusing on his hands, which had been a source of fascination for her the previous weekend as well. His hands were quite large, with long, bony fingers that were sprayed with freckles, but the way they moved — well, there was a grace and athleticism to his gestures that she for some reason found truly mesmerizing. She wondered if it had something to do with the years of magical training he'd been through, a thought she had to drop when she found he was laughing and shaking his head at her.

"Earth to Miss Granger," Ron said with a smile.

"Oh! Oh dear," Hermione said, pressing her hands to her cheeks, which were suddenly aflame. "You caught me wool-gathering. I'm so sorry."

"Boring you am I?" he replied with a wicked grin.

"No! Quite the contrary," she sputtered in her haste to cover up for her absent-mindedness, and then she felt her cheeks increase in temperature by several degrees as the full implications of what she'd just said truly dawned on her. She laughed at herself and dropped her hands, biting her lower lip and looking down to her lap. "I was just thinking, that's all," she said shyly, looking up at him once she'd settled her nerves.

"You do that a lot it would seem," Ron said through a half-grin. "May I ask what you were thinking about?"

Hermione decided to skip her mental drooling over his hands and instead bring up her previous musings. "I suppose all our talk about your schoolmates at Hogwarts just got me wondering, that's all."

Ron sighed and leaned back in his chair, folding his napkin and placing it atop his empty plate. "You mean, would we have been friends if we'd met there?"

She looked at him, eyes wide with surprise.

He nodded. "Yeah, I've wondered about that, too," he confessed quietly. "Quite a bit, actually. I have some theories," he continued distractedly, not sure he should say what was in his head at that moment. But then the waitress came by and dropped the bill in front of him. "Oh hey, look at the time," he said with a glance at his watch. "It's 1:45. Just 15 minutes 'til our appointment," he added as he dropped a few galleons on the table and stood, holding out his hand to her. "Wouldn't want to be late."

She was intensely curious to know what he had been about to say just then, but she was also dying to get to this mysterious destination of theirs, and so, rising and placing her hand in his, she decided to let the matter drop for the time being.

Despite some mild cajoling, Ron steadfastly refused to give her even the slightest hint as to where they were headed and Hermione eventually satisfied herself with listening to his description of the various shops they passed as they strolled the length of Diagon Alley. "Here's Flourish & Blotts, which I think you would really like," he said. "Maybe we can duck in there later."

"Yes, please," she said happily.

"And down the way there," he said, pointing to the right, "that's my brother's shop. He'd be annoyed if we didn't pop in."

"I'd love to."

Before long, they reached the outside of a curious-looking little storefront that sported a sign that simply said "Ollivander's."

Ron opened the door for her, setting off a small cluster of bells, and they stepped inside to find the place appeared to be empty. To Hermione's eye it was a strange sight — simply a blank wooden countertop arrayed in front of shelves containing row upon row of old cardboard boxes. As her eyes adjusted to the relatively dim light, an impossibly old man stepped up to the counter from behind a frosted glass doorway and approached Ron with his hand outstretched and a wide smile on his face.

"Ah, Mr. Weasley," said the old man as he gave Ron's hand a feeble shake. "You're Johnny on the spot for our 2 o'clock appointment, I see. And this," he said, turning to Hermione, "this must be Miss Granger."

Pleasantly surprised the old man knew her name, Hermione inclined her head to him and extended her hand, which he quite unexpectedly kissed before quickly adding, "and she is every bit as lovely as you described her, Mr. Weasley."

Ron cleared his throat, embarrassed at what Hermione might think he'd said, and quickly made to change the subject.

"Hermione, this is Garrick Ollivander, an old friend of mine who also happens to be the greatest wandmaker in Britain," said Ron.

Hermione smiled as Mr. Ollivander released her hand and straightened up to face Ron. "Why stop at Britain, young man?" Ollivander said with a grin.

"All right," Ron said, leaning a hand against the counter. "The greatest wandmaker in the world. Is that better?"

"That will do," Ollivander said. "Now, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley tells me you are in need of a wand. Is that correct?"

Hermione looked from Ollivander to Ron and back again in confusion. "Oh, well, not entirely," Hermione said, reaching into her purse and extracting the wand she'd been using for the past two years. "I have a wand right here, you see," she said, studying its nicked and scratched surface with a bit of embarrassment.

"May I?" said Ollivander, holding out his hand. Hermione placed the wand on his palm and watched, fascinated, as he turned it over and rolled it between his fingers before lifting it to his ear and listening to it for above 10 seconds. "Ah yes, this is not a bad little wand, if I do say so myself," Ollivander murmured as he laid the wand on the counter. "Olive wood with a hippogriff feather core. A quite serviceable instrument, but it is not yours — or, rather, you do not belong to it."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Ollivander smiled condescendingly. "The wand chooses the witch, Miss Granger. This wand selected one Dean Thomas to be its magical companion. He handed it down to you, I take it, and I imagine it's performed reasonably well, finely crafted bit of equipment that it is. But a hand-me-down wand is nothing like a wand that was quite literally made for you—very often before you were even born."

Hermione's mouth had slowly dropped open as Ollivander spoke.

"So," the old man continued in a businesslike tone, rubbing his bony hands together and turning to eye the shelves behind him. "Mr. Weasley took the liberty of describing you to me in advance, and that helped me to narrow down the hunt considerably, but if you will allow me a moment to fetch a few more boxes from my storeroom in back, I think the right wand will find you very quickly, Miss Granger. Pardon me a moment."

Ollivander shuffled through the frosted-glass door, leaving Hermione standing next to Ron in complete astonishment. She tilted her face up to him, searching for words, and for a panicked second Ron wondered if maybe he had overstepped. "You didn't have to," she said softly, her head shaking slowly from side to side, "I mean … I … this is …"

Before she could form her jumbled thoughts into a sentence, Ollivander returned, Levitating several boxes in front of him and directing them to land in front of Hermione with a flick of his wand.

"Let's start with this one," the old man said, prying open the box on top. "It may not be quite right, but its response to your touch will help direct my next selection."

Hermione looked to Ron, who was leaning against the counter and giving her a reassuring smile — one she couldn't help but return. Biting her lower lip, she reached out tentatively and ran her trembling fingers over the wand in its velvet-lined box. She felt a slight spark — nothing like the slightly deadened feeling she got from Dean's old wand — and she was surprised to find that it still sparked a bit when she lifted it into her hand.

"Try a simple spell — Lumos, perhaps," Ollivander directed her. Looking to Ron again, she said quietly, "I know that one," and spoke the incantation. The wand tip glowed dimly.

"Hmm. Interesting," Ollivander said. "A very useful finding. Now then—"

Ollivander turned his attention to another box, and then another. Finally, he reached for a box on the very top shelf behind him, shimmying up a rickety ladder with surprising speed in order to reach it. "This, I believe, is the very one," he said triumphantly as he removed the lid and handed the box to Hermione. "Vinewood with a core of dragon heartstring. Give it a go, Miss Granger."

Hermione for her part could sense it on sight — a vibration that was almost imperceptible at first but then rose to a crescendo at the touch of her hand. The skin-to-vinewood contact set off a satisfying rush of warmth that felt uncannily like the sensation of holding Ron Weasley's hand. She was unaware of it but her face had blossomed into a full-fledged grin, and as she spoke the incantation, "Lumos," a vibrant beam of light shot from the tip of the wand like a miniature beacon.

She turned to Ron, tears welling in her eyes. "This is the one," she said excitedly. "It's … it's simply extraordinary."

Ron had been watching her go through the process of trying wand after wand with all the excitement of opening gifts on Christmas morning — only he'd found the feeling of giving her this experience to be far more rewarding than being on the receiving end could ever be. He fairly glowed with pleasure at seeing her discover something she'd never experienced before, something she should have experienced when she was 11, dammit — the satisfaction of finding the wand that was meant for you, the tool that allows a witch or wizard to fully express the magic inside them — and he couldn't help himself. His eyes were nearly brimming over with tears as well.

"You're sure?" he said hoarsely.

"I am completely sure," she answered, and it occurred to her that she might have been talking of more than the wand.

Ollivander, meanwhile, busied himself with closing up the boxes and clearing them away, Levitating them through air now glittering with the dust that had been disturbed by their opening, and back to their rightful places.

"Look," Hermione said then, whispering a quick "Nox," and then pointing her wand at a quill that had been resting in its holder next to Ron's hand. "Wingardium Leviosa," she said confidently and, rather to her surprise, the quill lifted itself from its holder and followed the direction of her wand. Hermione laughed unabashedly. "I've never been able to get that one quite right," she said. "Good lord, it just feels so different!"

"You'll find that all your magic will flow much more freely now that this wand has found you," Ollivander said as he rested his hands on the counter. "I understand you haven't had much formal magical training just yet, my dear, but with the proper tools, you should now make excellent progress."

"Oh, I do hope so," Hermione answered, lowering the quill back into its original resting place. "So, Mr. Ollivander, what do I owe you for this wonderful wand?" Hermione asked as her free hand reached for the zipper of her purse.

"Not to worry, young lady, not to worry," Ollivander said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The account has already been settled, my dear," the old man said, shooting a quick look at Ron.

"But I … do you mean … I don't understand."

At this, Ollivander bowed to them both and stepped toward his office behind the frosted glass door. "Good day, Mr. Weasley, and I hope to see you again, Miss Granger," he said with a smile and another little bow before closing the door behind him.

Hermione stood looking at Ron, stupefied.

Ron felt his ears warm up uncomfortably and, looking down at his trainers, he instinctively raised his hand to the nape of his neck. "I didn't pay him exactly," Ron said. "Let's just say Ollivander wanted to repay a debt."

"Repay a debt?" Hermione asked at a whisper.

Ron shrugged, finding the courage to return his eyes to hers, which were tracking from point to point across his face. "I certainly didn't expect it, but when I contacted him, he insisted that he owed me for a time when I helped him escape from a tight spot back during the war. Wouldn't hear of taking my money."

"And you decided…"

"I couldn't abide watching you make do with that grotty old hand-me-down wand," Ron said a tad impatiently. "I know better than anyone what a hand-me-down feels like and, well, I reckoned you deserved to have one of your own."

"Oh," she said quietly, but he'd cast his eyes downward again, and therefore he couldn't see her expression and continued talking, hoping to dig himself from out of a hole.

"I'm sorry, I should have asked you first, I guess, but I—"

Ron was looking away from her, so he couldn't have been prepared for what happened next because, before he knew it, Hermione had slipped her hands onto his chest and, standing on tiptoe, she swiftly planted a kiss on his cheek.

"This is beyond a doubt the sweetest," she whispered, "the most thoughtful thing that anyone has ever done for me in my entire life, Ron Weasley." With a loud sniffle, she pulled away from him and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I simply can't … I can't possibly thank you enough," she added through a watery little smile.

Ron, who by then was smiling widely and pressing a hand to his cheek, could only shrug and say, "You don't have to thank me. I'm just happy you've got a decent wand now."

Hermione was so overcome that she was unable to speak without a slight croak in her voice for quite some time, but she put her hand in Ron's and allowed him to lead her throughout Diagon Alley for the remainder of the afternoon. At Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Ron introduced Hermione to George, who insisted she take home a box of Mysterious Midnight Moon Madness candies as well as a bag of Weasleys' Dragon Roasted Nuts. At Flourish & Blotts, Ron bought Hermione a copy of "A History of Magic," despite her objections that she would pay for it herself. "Your muggle money won't work here anyway," Ron declared, though she was quite certain that wasn't the real reason he was being so generous. Eventually they returned to the Leaky for a dinner of cottage pie and Warlock's Ale before Ron Disapparated them back to Sevenoaks.

In the semi-darkness, they walked more slowly than perhaps was necessary from the alleyway toward the front of the house. Ron, who had been carrying Hermione's various new acquisitions — with the exception of her wand, which she had stowed in her purse — extracted his own wand and Vanished the book as well as her boxes and bags. "You'll find all that on your dining room table," he said with a smile before taking her hand back into his own.

"Thank you," Hermione said, leaning back against the doorframe. Looking up and studying his face in the moonlight, noting how the light of the streetlamp created a golden halo about his ginger locks, she added, "Thank you for everything. Honestly."

"I should thank you," Ron said with a gentle squeeze of her hand. "I haven't enjoyed a Saturday this much since I can't remember when."

"Same here," Hermione replied quietly. "I suppose I should say good night, but my mind keeps turning to something you said earlier, and I can't help but ask about it while I still have a chance."

With a soft laugh, he stepped a bit closer to her. "Fire away."

"You said you had wondered whether we would have been friends if I'd gone to Hogwarts," she said. "Remember?"

Looking up, he pressed a finger to his lips jokingly. "I reckon I do."

"So, what do you think?" Hermione continued, amused but undeterred by his attempt to evade the question with humor.

"About what?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed. "Do you think, if I'd gone to Hogwarts, that we would have been friends?"

Ron took a step closer to her — so close that there was then only an inch between them. Grasping both of her hands firmly in his, he looked deep into her eyes and slowly shook his head. "No. No I don't."

His answer drew an audible gasp from Hermione, but he pressed on. "I think you would have been much, much more than a friend to me, Hermione Granger," Ron whispered before lowering his face and pressing his lips gently to hers.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

He hadn't planned to ask at first, thinking that perhaps he ought to pace himself rather than risk seeming too forward. The kiss had been a chaste but spine-tingling affair, the only contact between them being their joined hands and his lips ghosting lightly over hers for a few blissful seconds. Still, her lips had been so warm and so incredibly, pillowy soft, and his own lips tingled at the memory of them, even after he'd pulled away. He sensed he needed to keep his passions in check for her sake. But somehow, when he'd straightened up and looked down at her, he felt the question bubbling up in his chest. He let go of one of her hands and leaned his forearm against the brick wall next to her head and whispered, "When can I see you again?" She answered by biting her lip through a shy smile and giving him a tiny shrug while tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with her free hand. "How about I give you some spellcasting lessons tomorrow so you can start to get used to that wand?" he continued.

"I'd love to, but—" she'd said more quickly than she realized, but then she pursed her lips and cast her eyes downward. "I'm afraid I'm spending the day with my parents tomorrow," she continued.

Ron sighed and looked around in mild frustration. "How about Monday night?" he offered then, which drew her gaze back to his face.

"I'll be working late on Monday to prep for parent night at school," she answered sadly. "Lots of student evaluations to complete, that sort of thing."

"And Tuesday I suppose is—"

"Parent night," she supplied with a little laugh, and he joined her, his lopsided grin causing a fluttering in her chest.

"Wednesday night, then," he said. "You couldn't possibly be busy on a Wednesday night."

"Hmm," she said, looking up and stroking her chin contemplatively before bursting into a laugh. "As it happens, I am indeed free on Wednesday evening."

"Thank Merlin! Although I must confess," he continued, leaning in a little closer and speaking in an undertone that made her heart pound, "the thought of going nearly four entire days without seeing you is already driving me slightly mad."

Feeling herself blush under the heat of his gaze, Hermione whispered, "oh dear," and sank into the brick doorframe, her free hand tucked behind her back. "That sounds dreadfully serious."

"Mmm hmm."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Ron inched nearer and dropped his gaze to her lips. "I'm quite certain you're the only one who can help," he replied before closing the gap between them, pressing his lips against hers as he tightened his grip on her hand. Their first kiss had been gentler as his lips brushed the surface of hers so delicately as to be nearly imperceptible. This kiss was warmer, more sure — but it was brief and innocent and utterly captivating nevertheless. Ron broke contact with her after a few heady seconds, denying himself the pleasure of deepening the kiss. He had to keep reminding himself that, despite the sense that he'd known her all his life, they'd only actually met a week earlier, and he didn't want to overwhelm her.

With that thought in mind, he tore himself away from her and stood upright, a small but luminous smile curling the corner of his mouth upward. "Until Wednesday then," he said.

Through a mesmerized grin, Hermione replied, "Until Wednesday," and she quickly opened the latch behind her before she lost the will to bid him farewell for the evening.

oooOOOooo

 _Here's a micro-chapter for you. I know, I know — you want more! I promise there's another, longer chapter coming soon. Stay tuned!_

 _In the meantime, please review — and, if you're so inclined, share this story with your Romione-loving friends._

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

For both of them, the next four days were a form of mild torture. Both were busy — Hermione with her pre-Parent Night paperwork, Ron with his team's expanding investigation of a Dark smuggling ring. But their upcoming date was never far from either of their thoughts. Ron took the liberty of Owling Hermione late Tuesday to finalize plans, scoffing at himself for the fact that he was unable to write a simple note to her without smiling so hard that his cheeks started to hurt.

 _Hermione —_

 _That's the first time I've written your name. It's a pretty name — have I mentioned that? This is mental, I realize, but I was thinking about your name the other day and well, one thing led to another, and I went to the Ministry library to look it up. Now I could tell you all about what your name means — it's got to do with the ancient Greek messenger god Hermes, and Shakespeare made the name popular for a while way back when — but you probably already know all that. Just for grins I looked up my name while I was at it and was surprised to find it comes from a name for Old Norse kings: Rögnvaldr. Kinda glad somebody decided to turn that into Ronald at some point. Rögnvaldr doesn't exactly trip off the tongue._

 _Well, I've gone off on a bit of a tangent, haven't I. Actually, I was writing to firm up plans for tomorrow night — that is, if we're still on for those spellcasting lessons. I thought perhaps I could come by and collect you after school, and maybe we could get an hour or so of practice in and grab a quick bite to eat afterwards. I know it's a school night, so I promise not to keep you out too late._

 _You might want to pack a gym bag with some trainers and workout clothes. Not that we'll get all that sweaty, mind, but it would be helpful to have ease of movement._

 _Let me know if this plan works for you. Just tie a note to Pigwidgeon's leg and he'll bring it back to me. (Oh, this is my Owl, by the way. Give him a little scratch on the head, won't you? He's got a brain the size of a peanut, but he's a good boy. He'll be hoping for a treat. He eats just about anything — a carrot or a cracker will do — but if you're willing to part with a hunk of cheese, Pig'll do anything for you.)_

 _Ron._

It wasn't the first time Hermione had received an Owl; she'd gotten them regularly from Dean while he was at Hogwarts. But that didn't mean she wasn't startled when a small, frantic and rather boisterous creature landed on her windowsill at 10 o'clock, hooting and leaping, just as she was thinking about turning in for the night. Her face heated up when she realized who had sent this funny little bird, though, and she quickly untied and read the note, smiling with delight as she did so.

An hour later, Pig brought Hermione's reply, hooting in mild annoyance at Ron's eagerness to get the note off his leg. "Sorry, boy," Ron said abashedly as he handed Pig a biscuit and unfolded the paper.

 _Dear Rögnvaldr,_

 _I like your plan, and I promise to be ready to go, trainers and all, by 4 p.m. Sevenoaks School is right next to Knole Park — you can Apparate there without worrying too much about any muggles seeing you, but be careful of the wild deer! There are more than 300 of them roaming about the park grounds. Wouldn't want you to be startled by them._

 _When you get to the school, check in at the front desk and they'll direct you to my classroom. The receptionist will be expecting you._

 _I'm looking forward to it._

 _Fondly,_

 _Hermes Shakespeare._

When the bell in the old clock tower rang at 3:30 p.m. signaling the end of the school day, Hermione could barely contain her excitement. The last of her students filed out of the classroom at 3:45, and she spent the next 15 minutes pacing about the room, straightening piles of papers that didn't need to be straightened, adjusting and readjusting her skirt and her hair and her blouse. Why was she so nervous? She chastised herself for being such a flibbertigibbet. She'd kissed him — twice! Shouldn't that make her feel more, not less, secure? She sighed and stole another glance at herself in the mirror on the back wall of the classroom, deciding that her jumpiness just couldn't be helped.

Ron had his own theory about why he was such a bundle of nerves that afternoon: It was because they'd taken a little step forward, with a kiss, on Saturday night. But after an interval of so many days, he now couldn't quite sort out how he ought to behave when next he saw her. He knew deep down that he'd want to kiss her — snog her to within an inch of her life, really — the instant he laid eyes on her. He knew, of course, that snogging was right out at this stage, but would a peck on the lips do? Would she be expecting that? Or would she think he was being presumptuous somehow by starting out that way? They weren't boyfriend and girlfriend — not yet, anyway. He rolled his eyes at himself — he was overthinking everything, something he'd never done before with any other girl, and he realized he was beginning to drive himself mad. Landing with a thud, he straightened up, adjusted his rucksack, brushed off his jeans, and then strode purposefully through the wood edging Knole Park, taking care to avoid the deer — those buggers' antlers were indeed quite big, weren't they — and willed himself to calm down by inhaling a few deep breaths of the Kentish air and taking solace in the fact that after days of anticipation, he was finally taking action. He was tired of daydreaming about her and was quite eager to spend some time in her actual company.

He needn't have worried about their greeting, because as soon as he stepped into the doorway of Hermione's classroom, she'd walked up to him rather confidently and, standing on tiptoe, gave him a kiss on the cheek. He couldn't know, of course, that as soon as she'd done it, she'd second-guessed herself, wondering if perhaps she'd been too pushy, though Ron's growing grin soon eased her fears.

"Are you ready for your first proper magical lesson?" Ron said.

"Indeed I am," she replied, reaching to the large oaken desk at the head of the room and grabbing her navy blue gym bag. "I have all the necessary equipment here," she said.

Ron nodded approvingly then looked about Hermione's classroom. From what Ron could tell as he'd strolled down the hallway to get there, the classrooms in this wing of the school were all more or less the same, with large, oak-framed windows casting tree-shaded light onto ancient wooden-floored rooms fronted by large green chalkboards. But Hermione had decorated her classroom to reflect her interests as well as those of her students and, as a result, Ron couldn't help but think that the space had the same cozy feel as her flat did. She'd covered the walls with framed posters of heroes of recent world history, from Mohandas Gandhi to Marie Curie to Martin Luther King Jr. to Albert Einstein. Famous quotations from people farther back in history were displayed in frames as well, all arranged between tapestries representing artistic traditions from around the world as well as an impressive assortment of world maps.

"I wish we could do our work here," Ron said. "It's a great space."

"Thank you," Hermione said quietly. She was genuinely pleased that Ron so clearly approved of her classroom. "But, well…"

"Yeah," Ron said, snapping his attention back to Hermione. "Can't risk having muggles see what we're getting up to. Besides, it wouldn't do to have students see their teacher as a student, would it?"

"Hardly," Hermione replied. "I'm always going on and on about how they should all aim to be lifelong learners."

"Well then," he said, taking her gym bag from her and clasping her hand in his, "let's go practice what we preach, shall we?"

Soon they landed in the Apparition Zone just outside the Ministry of Magic, a place Hermione had only seen from a distance on their exploration of Diagon Alley. She could hardly believe she was about to get an opportunity to go inside.

As Ron led her through the massive Atrium, past the Floo Banks and toward the lifts, she gazed about the space in stunned amazement. The ceiling was so high! And though it was approaching evening, the Atrium was still abuzz with activity, as witches and wizards wearing a mix of muggle clothes as well as some of the most elaborate dress robes she had ever seen mingled and moved through the common areas — some hurrying, some taking their time, all doing the business of governing in the manner in which it's been done all over the muggle world for millennia, Hermione thought wryly: By jabbering and dealmaking in the corridors of power.

It was impossible not to observe that everywhere they went, Ron's presence was noted, whether it was with a simple nod of recognition or with outright admiration. "Good day, Mr. Weasley," murmured a young female security officer near the Floo Banks. "Oi, Ron!" chirped an elderly man who appeared to be getting ready to close up the Atrium Tea Shop for the evening, drawing a quick wave and a smile from Ron. People made way for Ron wherever they went, stepping back and allowing him space to move with a bow of the head and sometimes with a conspiratorial whisper to their companions. She'd had a glimpse of this phenomenon when they strolled about Diagon Alley the previous Saturday, but the feeling was different here — more concentrated, more subtle. On Diagon Alley, Ron tended to attract well-wishers, flirts, autograph-seekers and the awestruck stares of young children. Within the halls of the Ministry, however, the effect was in some ways more sobering to Hermione: Ron was treated with great deference in a place that was the seat of power within the British wizarding world, a place where, like all halls of government anywhere in human history, status mattered, like it or not. And it was clear that Ron's war hero status mattered quite a bit — though she suspected the person who was least impressed by that status was him.

Hermione was aware that she, too, was drawing her fair share of interest. She caught snatches of the whispers that swirled around them as they approached the lifts — "Who?" "No idea." "Never seen her." "Muggle?" "Squib?" — and it occurred to her that any woman seen in the presence of Ronald Weasley, War Hero was likely to be the subject of fairly intense speculation. She blushed at the thought, casting her eyes downward, and felt herself move a bit closer to Ron.

Thankfully the lift they had waited for was empty. Hermione was eager to escape the scrutiny she'd experienced in the Atrium. Ron smiled down at her and said, "Auror Level, please," causing the lift to jolt into motion. That motion, however, was sideways — something Hermione had never experienced in a lift before — and she gasped and tumbled into him.

"Oh, sorry about that," Ron said apologetically, dropping her hand in order to drape his arm about her shoulder. "Should have warned you."

"No worries," Hermione murmured, savoring the opportunity to stand that much closer to him. She squeaked involuntarily when the lift suddenly jerked downward, causing Ron to tighten his grip so that they were flush against one another.

"Auror Level," said a soothing, disembodied voice, "Corps Headquarters, Commander's Suites, Auror Team Offices, Gymnasium, Locker Room, Archives and Training Facilities."

Hermione was a bit disappointed to have to step off, because it meant Ron had slipped his arm off of her shoulder. But as he held the lift door open for her, he extended his hand, and she laughed inwardly that she'd have to settle for hand-holding for the time being.

Stepping out of the lift, she found herself in a mahogany-paneled hallway. Ron gestured toward a pair of frosted-glass doors at the very end. "Right this way," he said jauntily, and she followed him. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, sensing that she might be a bit overwhelmed by so many new sights within these walls. At the doorway, he dropped her hand momentarily and explained that the door would only open at the touch of a certified Auror or Auror Corps employee and, sure enough, when he touched the door handle, it glowed and clicked open.

The glass doors parted to reveal a large central room containing rows of desks, a space that was edged on all sides by walled-off offices. A young man in uniform, who had been riffling through papers at a desk in the center of the room, jumped up at the sight of Ron and Hermione and stood at attention.

"At ease, Monteith," Ron said, and the young man's posture softened. "You on duty tonight?"

"Yes sir, Captain" the young man said. "Lindeman is as well, but he stepped over to the Archives. Looking up last year's file on the Voortman case."

"Very good," Ron replied, stepping toward an enclosed office that bore his name. "Looks like Brocklehurst is still here, eh?" he added with a nod toward a closed office door at the far end of the room.

"He is, sir, but I reckon he'll be signing off soon."

Ron led Hermione into his office. "Sorry," he said with a smile, "after reminding you to bring your trainers, I realized too late that I forgot mine. They're in this closet here," he said. As he stuck his head behind the door and riffled about, Hermione cast her eyes around the office. Like the rest of the Auror Corps area, it was paneled in dark mahogany, but the dark wood was barely visible beneath the various maps, charts and marked-up papers that Ron had pinned up around the room, as well as "Wanted" posters containing the quite frightening images of various Dark wizards scowling out at her.

"Here they are," Ron said triumphantly, turning back to find Hermione looking somewhat aghast at the snarling grimace glaring down at her from the wall next to Ron's desk. "That's Antonin Dolohov," Ron said. "Been on the run for six years, and we're still trying to track him down. But we will."

Hermione shuddered.

Ron stepped closer to her and took her hand again. "I won't lie — there are still some scary bastards out there, Hermione," he said lowly. "But Aurors like me and Harry are sworn to track down every last one of them. You don't have to worry."

She looked up to him then and gave him a small smile, though she was surprised to find that she couldn't speak past a rising lump in her throat.

"This is really what I'm on about when I say I want to teach you how to use your wand," Ron said, stepping an inch closer. "'Course, there's loads of spells you could learn to make day-to-day life easier — my Mum could teach you a ton of household charms, just for starters — but I for one would breathe a bit easier if you learned a few defensive spells. Don't get me wrong," he added quickly when he saw her lip quiver, "the magical world is safer now than it's ever been in my lifetime, so I don't want you to be frightened of it."

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and swallowed hard. "I'm not frightened," she said then with perhaps more confidence than she felt. "But yes, I'd like to learn anything you care to show me."

"Atta girl," he said brightly. "Let's go, then."

They stepped back out into the central room and Monteith and another young man jumped back up and stood at attention. Ron rolled his eyes. "As you were Monteith, Lindeman," Ron sighed. "If anybody's looking for me, we'll be down in the gymnasium for about an hour."

"Yes, sir," both young men said at once, and Ron pushed open another set of doors for Hermione. He waited until the doors had closed behind him before he allowed himself to laugh.

"Do they always jump up like that every time you enter the room?" Hermione said with a grin.

"No, if they did that during the day, they'd never get any work done, because officers are constantly coming and going," Ron answered. "But yeah, technically recruits and corporals are supposed to stand at attention the first time they encounter any higher-ranking Auror during the day. Brocklehurst, our Commander, is kind of a stickler for it, but I think it's all a bit much."

They passed through another set of double doors and into a much more brightly lit, linoleum-lined locker room. "The ladies' is on the right," Ron said with a tilt of the head in that direction. Handing over her gym bag, he said, "You can stash your things in any of the lockers. I'll be in the men's over here."

"OK, meet you here in a few minutes," Hermione said as they parted ways.

They both emerged a few minutes later dressed in workout clothes. Ron privately marveled at how beautiful she looked even in a pair of grey leggings and a sweatshirt that extended below her bum. Hermione, for her part, had to force herself not to let her eyes linger too long on Ron's muscular biceps, which were now visible from beneath a snug T-shirt, not to mention his long, powerful-looking legs.

"Ready?" Ron said.

Hermione put her wand between her teeth as she tied her hair into a loose ponytail. "Yep," she answered then. "Lead on, Captain," she added with a mock salute.

"I'll have you know that smartasses get drummed out of this Corps, Granger," he said, pointing his finger at her warningly as they stepped through another set of doors and into the gymnasium. "Mind your instructor."

She couldn't help but laugh as she followed him into the large, wood-floored gym. The lower half of the walls appeared to be covered in protective, padded mats, and Ron Summoned several more large floormats over to their side of the room.

"Right," he said, rubbing his hands together. "I was thinking that there are two spells we could start off with. One is called Impedimenta. It's a hex, really — it'll stop an attacker's movements. It's only temporary, mind. The effects last only 10 to 15 seconds, unlike the stronger version, which is called Stupefy. But Impedimenta is easy to learn as a starter spell, and it can be dead useful."

Hermione nodded, a lock of her hair coming loose from its binding and curving about her chin. Ron fought a wild urge to reach down and curl it about his finger and forced himself to continue.

"So, Impedimenta's an offensive spell. But the first one I thought we'd try is a defensive spell called Protego."

"Oh yes, I've heard of that one."

"Good. It's also a surprisingly simple spell, but very handy in all sorts of situations. Ready?"

After walking Hermione through the proper wand movements and coaching her on when to actually pronounce the incantation, Ron stood back and let her give it a go.

"Protego!" she intoned, and though it wasn't terribly strong, a defensive shield did indeed spring from her wand tip — strong enough that Ron had to push hard to break through it. But he did break through, which made it clear some refinements were necessary. "That's an excellent start — I mean it," he added emphatically when she looked a bit crestfallen that she hadn't gotten it 100 percent right the very first time. "I had classmates at Hogwarts who had to work on this one for weeks before even getting a blob of anything like a shield to come out of their wands."

She smiled shyly, surprised at how even this slight praise for her magic made her feel like jumping up and down.

"I think the results might be stronger, though, if you corrected your elbow movement just a bit," he said. "Keep your wandtip aligned with your left sightline," he said, demonstrating by extending his own elbow into the proper position. "See here? Think of it not so much as a motion of the wrist but as a motion of the entire forearm, like so."

She tried again, and the result was indeed better, but …

"Here," he said then, walking up behind her. "May I?" he asked, looking over her shoulder.

She was so captivated by his nearness that all she could do was nod and say "mmm hmm."

Ron, for his part, felt his heart palpitating in his chest and took care to keep a respectful distance between them as he positioned himself behind her and reached for the wrist of her wand hand. "I think you just," he said, wrapping his hand around hers, "you just need to alter the plane of your wrist in the final delivery." He gently twisted her wrist by a quarter turn, angling her palm upward. "Try it now," he whispered and let go, backing away a step, his heart still fluttering in his chest.

Hermione had been so overwhelmed by the sensation of being surrounded by Ron — not to mention breathing in the sandalwood-and-spearmint scent of him — that she had to mentally shake herself in order to continue. But she was certain he'd placed her arm in the proper position and tried the incantation again, beaming in amazement as a fully formed shield emanated from her wand.

"That's it! You did it!" Ron shouted from behind her, and before she could stop herself she spun around and threw her arms around his neck, and he lifted her and spun her around and around.

"I did it, didn't I?" she gushed when he set her down. "I can hardly believe it!"

"Honestly," he said, catching his breath, "you're a natural, you are. Let's practice it a few more times and move on to Impedimenta, then."

As they tried several more Protegos and then proceeded to Impedimenta, Ron was thoroughly impressed by Hermione's ability to observe, take in and process such complex information so quickly. He noted in particular that she was especially good at the underlying theory behind the spell — comprehending the importance of what spellwriters call the Declaration of Intent as well as the Closing Signature, and he realized, not for the first time, that he was in the presence of an extraordinary mind. That realization, he found, was humbling. If she'd been allowed to study magic in the way most witches do, she'd be formidable by now — and that thought lit a small spark of annoyance at her parents, which he fought to snuff out.

They worked in this way for another 45 minutes, trying and retrying approaches to Impedimenta on a set of dummies that Ron animated and sent flying in Hermione's direction over and over again.

"OK, I think you're ready to try Impedimenta on a real, live human," Ron said with a laugh.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"I wouldn't want to hurt you."

"You won't hurt me," he replied with a shrug. "That's what all these mats are for, anyway," he added as he walked to the far side of the gym.

"Well, all right," Hermione said slowly. "But only if you're sure."

"I'm sure," Ron said. "I'll come at you, and you show me what you've got."

And with only that as a warning, Ron took off at a run toward Hermione. Before she had time to think, she shouted the incantation and, to her horror, an Impedimenta stronger than any she'd cast before shot out of her wand and hit Ron squarely in the chest, knocking him off his feet and sending him crashing to the floor.

"Oh shit!" Hermione shouted as she ran and then dropped to her knees beside him on the mat, her heart pounding in sheer panic. Leaning over and taking his face in both her hands, she pleaded, "Ron, are you all right? I'm so, so sorry. Please, Ron! Wake up! Please!"

Fifteen very long seconds later, Ron blinked slowly and turned his head slightly left, then right. Meeting her eye, he said, "Did I hear you swear just now?"

"What?" she said distractedly, her eyes zig-zagging across his face.

"Didn't think you had it in you, Granger," he said in a scratchy voice.

Hermione, who still held his face in her hands, sputtered in exasperation. "Ronald Weasley, you scared me half to death," she said, "and you're joking about it!"

"It's all right," he croaked through a crooked grin. "I definitely think you've got Impedimenta down, though," he continued, and as he made to prop himself up on his elbows, Hermione slid her hands from his cheeks to his shoulders.

Rubbing his shoulders soothingly, she asked in a softer voice, "Are you sure you're all right?"

He looked deep into her eyes at that, though a smile still played about his lips. "I think I'll live," he said, "but only if…"

Hermione gasped, sincerely praying that she hadn't somehow truly injured him. "Only if what?" she asked, still searching his face with a worried brow while biting her lower lip anxiously.

"Only if," he repeated and then, leaning on one elbow, he reached a hand up and touched the curl that had beguiled him along the curve of her chin for nearly an hour. She smiled back at him then, finally cottoning on to his meaning, and leaned in toward him. He directed his gaze to her lips at that moment and, sliding his hand to the base of her neck, gently pulled her face toward his. "Only if," he repeated at a whisper before meeting her lips with his.

Hermione sank into the kiss, a small hum of pleasure flowing from her chest as she did so. The sound ignited a flame deep within Ron, and he laid back on the mat, pulling Hermione along with him until she was halfway lying on top of him, her hands pressed firmly against his chest. He kept one hand planted on the nape of her neck and snaked his other arm around her waist, pulling her that much closer as he sucked her lower lip between his own. She moaned again, and Ron thought it wasn't just the rapidly diminishing Impedimenta spell that was making him dizzy. Pressing his tongue gently against her lips, the fluttering in his chest intensified as he found to his surprise that she had opened up her lips to him with another small moan, allowing him entry. He was just deepening the kiss when the sound of a throat clearing in the distance — once rather softly, and then a second time more loudly — snapped Ron from his reverie.

Looking toward the sound of the throat-clearing, Ron growled in frustration and propped himself back up on his elbows as Hermione sank her face into the hollow between his neck and his shoulder in abject embarrassment.

"This better be good, Lindeman," Ron barked.

"Sorry, sir!" the young man answered in a terrified shout, his face white as a sheet. "Commander Brocklehurst wants to see you in his office, sir!"

"Of course he does," Ron muttered beneath his breath. "Tell him I'll be in his office in 15 minutes," he said more loudly in Lindeman's direction.

"Yes sir!" Lindeman said with a salute before adding, more sincerely, "and sorry, sir."

"It's all right," Ron sighed, and Lindeman took this as his cue to make himself scarce. Ron sighed and tucked his finger beneath Hermione's chin, tilting her face upward to his. "You OK?" he said through a small grin.

Hermione, whose cheeks were aflame, nodded meekly. "Merely mortified, that's all."

"Oh, don't mind Lindeman," Ron said. "This is probably the biggest thrill he'll ever have on the night shift."

Hermione laughed grimly at this. "You're not in trouble, are you?"

"Nah," Ron answered with a laugh. "I filed a request with Brocklehurst this afternoon that he's probably just got around to reading — asked him if we could bring Harry's team in to collaborate on this smuggling case I'm on. My guess is Lindeman or Monteith mentioned that I was still here and Brocklehurst got it into his head that he might as well give me a yes or no tonight. No worries."

With that, Ron sat up, pulling Hermione along with him until they were both back on their feet. "It's probably time to finish here and feed you up anyway, isn't it," he said, laughing as his stomach growled loudly.

"Perhaps it is," she replied with a barely suppressed chuckle.

"OK, let's change."

Ron led Hermione back to the locker room but, before pointing her toward the ladies' area, he pulled her to him and planted a quick kiss on her lips. "Meet you out here when you're ready," he said.

Minutes later, Ron deposited Hermione in his office. "I won't be more than five or ten minutes, I promise," he said, gesturing toward the large chair behind his desk.

"Take your time," Hermione said. "I'll do a little reading while you're gone."

"Thanks," Ron said, stepping toward the office door. "There are some magazines and newspapers buried there on the credenza behind my desk. Back soon."

Hermione riffled through the stack of publications piled amongst a seemingly random assortment of papers. She came across four or five back issues of a publication called The Quibbler, plus several out-of-date copies of The Daily Prophet and two issues of Witch Weekly featuring a dreamy-looking Harry on the cover, which made Hermione laugh. A stack of a publication called Wandcraft Today caught her eye, and she figured it would be worth a look since wandcraft was exactly what she and Ron had been working on.

Settling into Ron's chair, she thumbed through the first copy of Wandcraft Today she laid her hands on — a year-old copy of the publication — and scanned the table of contents.

"Non-verbal spells: Theory and practice," seemed particularly interesting, and she was about to turn to it when another entry drew her attention.

 _"The Wandcraft Today Analysis: Ron Weasley and the Power of Instinct. Page 24."_

Hermione breathlessly flipped to Page 24 to find that the entire center of the glossy-paged magazine was devoted to an in-depth, full-color illustrated analysis of the wand technique of Ronald Bilius Weasley, written by a pair of magical experts she'd never heard of before — Melody Rae Cardinale and Cleatus Montgomery Wainwright.

 _ **INSTINCT AND REFLEX: The Wandcraft of Ronald Bilius Weasley**_

 _On the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, Wandcraft Today looks back at some of the pivotal battles of the war, illustrations sourced via witnesses' memories of the events as they took place via Pensieve. In future issues, we will analyze the unstudied but powerful technique of The Chosen One, Harry Potter, as well as other key players in the effort to defeat Voldemort. In today's issue, however, we go in-depth on Potter's right-hand man, Ronald Bilius Weasley.  
_

Hermione's eye roved the page, fascinating by the moving images that looked to her untrained eye like miniature films that played over and over again before her. Each miniature movie was accompanied by a lengthy caption explaining what she was seeing. Throughout, Ron and sometimes Harry appeared, throwing curses and blocking spells in battle. She was transfixed and aware that her heart was beating faster as she read.

 _It's impossible to analyze Ron Weasley's technique without simultaneously assessing that of his best mate, Harry Potter. Indeed, there are profound similarities in this duo's approach to incantation and execution, but the differences are also stark and edifying, especially for those who aspire to join these two widely-revered wizards on the British Auror Corps. In this Q &A, Wandcraft Today guest editors Melody Rae Cardinale and Cleatus Montgomery Wainwright share their insights._

Hermione's attention was drawn to the first image, a moving picture of a much younger Ron and Harry battling three much larger wizards in a corridor in what looked like the Ministry.

 _ **Cardinale**_ _: Note the differences in wand technique here and how fluidly and casually Weasley throws a curse in comparison to Harry Potter._

 _ **Wainwright**_ _: Oh, it's striking, Melody. Note that Harry's wand grip is too tight, his elbows are locked, his shoulders raised, left elbow cranked in awkwardly against his body._

 _ **Cardinale**_ _: Technically he's a mess. I wouldn't want to face him down in battle, but if I were grading him back at Hogwarts, I'd take points off for form, that's for sure._

 _ **Wainwright**_ _: Kids'll imitate his awful technique and drive their parents nuts. Don't twist your neck like that and I don't care what Auror Extraordinaire Harry Potter does — when you save wizardkind you can hold your wand however you like but until then, drop your damned shoulders._

 _ **Cardinale**_ _: Which brings us to Ron Weasley._

 _ **Wainwright**_ _: Ah yes, an entirely different kettle of kestrels here. Now this technique is a thing of beauty — entirely instinctive. I could watch him all day._

 _ **Cardinale**_ _: Well, this is a powerful wizard who has been around wand users since birth, and it shows. Practiced with twigs and then his brothers' wands as a kid._

 _ **Wainwright**_ _: Look at how the movement flows from his center, the way he uses his whole body and throws out his opposite hand behind him to counterbalance the movement. Harry gets his wand into position and then throws the curse, while Ron's spell starts mid-motion because he knows his wand will be in position in time._

 _ **Cardinale**_ _: He gives a lot for up-and-coming witches and wizards to think about, doesn't he. Of course, there's room in the world for all sorts of approaches. But if you aspire to a smooth and fluid technique, trial and error as well as constant practice can duplicate the kind of results that seem almost innate to R—"_

Before she had a chance to finish, Hermione heard Ron bid good night to his commander and stride back in the direction of his office. Slapping the magazine shut, she slipped it back into the pile on the credenza, her heart fluttering in her chest. She didn't know why she was embarrassed — perhaps because she didn't want to be caught acting like a total fangirl in his presence — but she'd recognized the truth in the reviewers' words. Ron was indeed an impressive wizard. But what impressed her even more than his skill was his apparent humility about it.

"Hey," he said, sticking his head into the office. "Hungry?"

As it happened, she was indeed hungry and, grabbing her gym bag, she stood to join him. As they strolled through a much less populated Ministry Atrium than they had before, Ron explained that he'd gotten good news from Brocklehurst: Harry's unit would indeed be assigned to help out on Ron's case. To celebrate, they Disapparated to a little Italian restaurant at the far end of Diagon Alley, reliving every detail of their spellcasting lesson and laughing heartily over the spell that ultimately sent Ron tumbling onto his back. After dinner, Hermione attempted to pick up the check, arguing that it was the least she could do to repay Ron for the lesson. Ron wouldn't hear of it, of course.

"Well then I'll just have to insist that you let me make you a homemade dinner sometime," she said as they rose and headed for the exit.

"Now that I will allow," Ron said.

It was full dark by the time they landed in the alleyway behind Hermione's flat. "Can I claim some of your time this weekend?" he said as he let her lead him to the front door.

"You most certainly can," Hermione replied. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, I wondered if you might want to come to my team's match on Friday night. That is, if you're not sick of Quidditch already."

"Oh, I'd love to," she said sincerely.

"All right," Ron said. "OK if I give you a bell tomorrow then to set it up?"

"More than OK," she said quietly.

He laughed, then whispered, "OK if I kiss you again?"

"More than OK," she repeated, raising her hands to his chest as he dropped her gym bag and wrapped his arms loosely about her waist.

She leaned her upper back against the door and he followed suit, slanting his body gently against hers as his lips found hers, breathing in deeply through his nostrils as he thrilled at the feeling of her parting her lips. Gradually, she slipped her hands upward and looped them around his neck, wordlessly inviting him to deepen the kiss. He complied, of course, and the feeling of her softness pressed so firmly against him drew a rumbling hum from deep within his chest.

"Mione," he murmured absent-mindedly against her lips, then plunged his tongue deeply into her mouth, pulling her closer for one more delicious moment before forcing himself to break away and rest his forehead against hers. "I shouldn't tell you this," he said as he steadied his breathing, "but …"

She smiled and nuzzled her nose alongside his. "Tell me what?"

With a sigh, Ron straightened up enough to look Hermione in the eye. "I can't stop thinking about you."

Hermione felt goosebumps rise on her skin as his words and sincere expression sunk in. Biting her lip, she looked up to him and nodded. "I shouldn't tell you this," she answered, "but I can't stop thinking about you, either."

Hermione had by then often observed that Ron had a gleaming, heart-stopping smile, but the one that crossed his face at that moment was brighter and more magnetic than any she'd seen yet. "Really?" he said in an astonished whisper.

"Really."

oooOOOooo

 _I owe thanks (and perhaps apologies) to a Tumblr user named "floateron," whose post on Ron, Harry and (truthfully) Hermione's spellcasting techniques inspired the "Wandcraft" review. I'll see if I can reach out to her (or him, I suppose) to let them know that I picked up the idea from them!  
_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

 _A/N — Fans of kjc1123's "TOSOL" will note that so far I have deviated significantly from her original (there's no murder subplot, Hermione's friend and Dean's fiancee Chloe is absent, etc.), but the following chapter recreates and expands on portions of kjc's Chapter 8. As mentioned at the beginning of this story, my intention in writing this entire piece is to give credit where it's due — kjc's story is an inspiration — but also to share with you my interpretation of the Hermione-as-outsider trope that went through my head as I read her story. The notion of Hermione as a newcomer to the wizarding world is a well-loved and widely replicated fan fiction archetype, but I especially loved the opening chapter that set up the premise for kjc1123's work, and I felt inspired to take her idea in a new direction. I hope you'll understand that I'm coming from a place of respect and admiration for kjc's work. I'll explain further at the end of this chapter._

oooOOOooo

Tucking the blackwatch tartan blanket snugly around her legs, Hermione sat in the bleachers just beside a gathering of six women who were waiting to watch their various boyfriends and husbands play a friendly game of Friday night Quidditch.

She smiled sheepishly at that thought; when she'd referred to it as a "friendly game" in conversation a bit earlier, one of the women — a quite pregnant witch named Noreen — scoffed and shot Hermione a sarcastic grin from over her shoulder. "There's nothing friendly about this lot when it comes to Quidditch," Noreen had said. "You'd think they were playing in the World Cup the way they carry on," she added, drawing a few snickers of agreement from the rest of the group.

"To be fair, though," offered another woman, who was sitting toward the front, "it usually is friendly except for times like tonight, when we're up against Little Hangleton."

"Mmm, that's true," said Noreen over the murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group.

"How so?" asked Hermione, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Well," Noreen replied in an undertone through the corner of her mouth with a nod toward the team at the opposite end of the pitch, "Little Hangleton's made up of mostly Slytherins, you see."

Hermione most certainly didn't see, but she didn't want to let on.

Another woman sitting just behind Noreen sighed in exasperation. "It's ridiculous," she said with a roll of the eyes. "No matter how much things have changed since the war, old habits die hard — at least on the Quidditch pitch. My Nigel is still arsed that Slytherin beat Hufflepuff for the House Cup in his seventh year."

"Same with Jeff," a woman sitting ahead of Hermione said. "Every time our boys face off against Hangleton, he wants to get his revenge."

The rest of the women laughed heartily at this.

"Tim is obsessed with these matches, Hangleton or no," another young woman said with a smirk. "Friday Night League is all he talks about all week long."

Just then, both teams began mounting their brooms and slowly preparing for the start of the match, drawing cheers of "Go, Otters!" from the cluster of women in the stands. Her fellow spectators were friendly but not overly so, Hermione mused, though having thoroughly quizzed her about why none of them could recall her from their Hogwarts days, whatever suspicions they might have harbored toward her were soon directed to a gaggle of four late-arriving, much younger women who had rather loudly flounced in to sit at the far end of the Ottery St. Catchpole bleachers. "Well look what the Kneazle dragged in," Noreen muttered as she elbowed one of her companions in the ribs and cocked her thumb in the direction of the teenaged witches.

Catching Hermione's confused look, Noreen's friend leaned over and whispered behind her hand to Hermione: "Groupies."

Eyebrows raised, Hermione cast a glance toward the assortment of bottle blondes who had sashayed to the very edge of the pitch. Their outfits ranged from form-fitting to downright scanty, making Hermione second-guess her decision to wear jeans and a rather oversized turtleneck to this particular event. But there was a serious chill in the air, especially now that the sun was going down, making Hermione wonder how many Warming charms these girls were employing in order to sit outside in shorts, high-heeled sandals and tight-fitting tank tops on this breezy early spring evening.

"Bints," Noreen murmured under her breath.

"They're not dating any of the Otters?" Hermione asked, drawing a snort from Noreen.

"They'd like to be."

With a shrug, Hermione sized up the giggling newcomers again.

"So, you're here with Ron Weasley?" the woman sitting in front of Hermione said shyly, snapping Hermione from her observations of the younger girls and forcing her to try to recall the woman's name. Was it Penny? Yes, that was it. Hermione cursed herself for being so bad with names. She was just debating with herself about whether she should risk addressing this woman as Penny when Noreen cut in.

"Pass the popcorn, would you Penny? Cor blimey, this baby's got me so hungry I could eat a Hippogriff."

Penny pivoted on her seat to pass the popcorn while stealing a glance at Hermione and rolling her eyes at Noreen. This made Hermione laugh.

"Don't mind Noreen," Penny said as she offered Hermione a handful of popcorn. "She's not normally this stroppy. It's just since she's been up the duff."

"Just wait a few months," Noreen shot back. "When you're so big you can't see your feet anymore, you'll sing a different tune."

Penny rubbed her belly with a grin, and Hermione caught on that Penny must be pregnant too, but a few months behind Noreen. "So, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," Penny said to Hermione in a playful tone, "I was just curious because Ron's never brought a girlfriend to a match before."

"Hasn't he?" Hermione whispered, her cheeks turning red as the rest of the group chuckled at her barely masked astonishment.

"Mind you, those skanks down there," Noreen said — loudly enough, Hermione thought uncomfortably, to be heard by the bottle blondes below — "they show up just about every week for one reason and one reason only: To catch your boyfriend's eye."

Hermione struggled to know how to respond to the use of the words "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" to describe her and Ron. They weren't quite at that point, were they? And yet, she was becoming aware that she very much wanted to be. When he'd left her at her doorstep on Wednesday night, he had kissed her more passionately than she'd ever been kissed before, and her lips positively tingled for hours after she had finally torn herself away and bid him good night. To her delight, Ron had rung her the following evening, ostensibly to let her know when he'd come 'round to collect her for the Quidditch match, but they'd wound up chatting for a solid hour about everything and nothing, from what they'd done that day at work to the muggle movies Ron has seen to their favorite music and more. And earlier that evening, when Ron had arrived at her flat to pick her up, he greeted her with a quick peck on the lips that sent a glowing feeling surging throughout her body.

These were the recollections that were fizzing through Hermione's head as Ron and his teammates took one last pre-game lap around the pitch. Where earlier that evening she had taken pains not to be caught openly staring at him, at this moment she dimly realized she had been absent-mindedly tracking his movements, the memory of his kisses causing a warm wave of goosebumps to pass over her. Ron caught her eye just then as the team swooped by and he gave her a subtle nod and a warm smile — and she was about to return the gesture with a shy wave when the hoots and hollers of the bottle blondes broke into her consciousness.

"Wooooooo!" one of the girls hooted, waving at Ron, only to be drowned out by the girl sitting next to her, who had leapt up to stand on the bench and, flailing her arms madly over her head, screeched, "I love you Ronald Weasley!" causing all her friends to fall about in rowdy hysterics.

"Skanks indeed," Hermione muttered more loudly than she had intended, and the women in her circle laughed appreciatively — with Noreen even going so far as to reach up and give Hermione a high-five.

The ice thus broken, the rest of the match passed more pleasantly than Hermione could have expected — her companions in the bleachers proved to be an amiable bunch despite their initial coolness, and Hermione meanwhile privately gloried in Ron's prowess in goal. Ron, for his part, had a busy night. The Hangleton Harriers were indeed pouring it on, firing shots on goal relentlessly, and though Hermione wasn't remotely knowledgeable about Quidditch, she understood enough to know that the saves Ron made were first-rate.

Ron, meanwhile, had found it a bit harder than usual to concentrate, knowing Hermione was in the stands and likely watching his every move. Yet, to his relief, he'd managed to hold the Harriers to only 30 points, which wasn't too bad given their aggressive offense, and the Otters eventually emerged victorious. Ron had wondered how long it would take for his teammates to cotton on to the fact that he'd brought a girl along that night. Since no one mentioned it during the pre-game warm-ups, he'd begun to think that maybe he might just get through the night without anyone taking the mickey out of him — or, worse, chatting Hermione up. By the time the Otters hit the locker-room showers, however, he realized how foolish he had been to hope.

"Did any of you chaps notice," McGinnis shouted over the sound of the running water, "we had some new talent in the stands tonight."

Frawley let out a low whistle. "You mean the posh-looking one with the curly hair?"

"Mmm. Not much in the tits department, mind, but what's there is choice," McGinnis answered as he stepped out of the shower and toweled off his hair.

"Oi! You're lucky I've got soap in my eyes, McGinnis, or I'd thump you for that," Ron growled perhaps a tad too sincerely to be taken as entirely joking.

"Hang on," drawled Newton, who had beat the rest of the team to the showers and was already dressed and preoccupied with combing his hair just so. "Am I to understand that Ron Weasley brought a bird out for a Friday night?"

Rolling his eyes with a sigh, Ron stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in a towel. "Back off, Newton," Ron said warningly, though he tried to keep a smile in his voice.

"Whatever could you possibly mean?" Newton replied, his well-sculpted eyebrows raised in faux innocence as he returned his gaze to the mirror to straighten his collar.

Pulling on his jeans roughly and then sitting on the bench to step into his boots, Ron grumbled inwardly. Fucking Newton. Always on the pull. He took a deep breath to control his temper. "Listen, mate, you can go out looking for totty all you want, and I'll never stop you," he said as he stood to tuck in his shirt. "Just look somewhere else tonight."

Newton gasped melodramatically, pressing his hands to his chest. "I am deeply, deeply troubled by these sentiments, Weasley," he said through a crooked smile. "I'm seeking a soul mate, Weasley — a soul mate, I tell you. And if by chance I meet her tonight, whether she's dating someone else or not, I can hardly be held responsible. What can I say? The heart wants what it wants."

Hoisting his equipment bag over his shoulder, Ron tossed his wet towel into Newton's face as he headed for the exits, laughing loudly as Newton exclaimed, "Oi! You messed up my hair, you git."

Deep down, Ron knew Newton was only taking the mick — if not, Ron would have gone to greater lengths to be sure Newton understood that Hermione was 100 percent off-limits. Even so, as he strolled out of the locker rooms and toward the bleachers where he'd agreed to meet Hermione, he was beginning to wonder whether bringing her out tonight to mix with the team was such a good idea after all.

He was just toying with suggesting that the two of them nip away to a little Chinese restaurant nearby and leave the team to their usual barroom antics, but as he mounted the stairs to the bleachers he was aggrieved to find that Alastair Fotheringill, the team's Seeker — who also happened to be a devilishly handsome and quite single bloke — had beat him to the stands and was engaged in a lively conversation with Hermione.

The smile that came over Hermione's face when she laid eyes on him, however, did much to restore Ron's spirits, and as he mounted the stairs two at a time to reach her, he recognized anew just how pretty she was that evening, with her hair done up in a loose braid and a fuzzy turtleneck encircling her pink cheeks.

Hermione waved in his direction as he approached. "Great match, Ron" she said brightly. "Alistair here was just telling me about the rivalry between the Otters and Little Hangleton and how solid Hangleton's offense is. And I was just about to say that it didn't look that way tonight, since the Otters' Keeper only allowed three goals."

Ron felt his ears pink up at this praise. "Well, Alistair caught the Snitch in the end, so…" he said.

"Don't be modest, Weasley," Fotheringill said. "You were smashing tonight. So, uh," he continued, turning to Hermione, "What do you say we head down to the Unicorn and get a table before the rest of that lot grabs all the good seats?"

Smiling up at Fotheringill, Hermione said, "That's a wonderful idea. I'm famished," and, standing and scooping up her blanket in one swift movement, she looped her arm through Ron's and planted a kiss firmly on his cheek. "Let's go," she said to Ron in an undertone.

Ron couldn't resist the urge to look back over his shoulder and wiggle his eyebrows at Fotheringill in triumph as he led Hermione down the steps toward the exit. Fotheringill had the good grace to know he'd been thoroughly set in his place, but that didn't stop him from laughing at Ron playfully and flashing a rude gesture in his direction before picking up his bag and following them to the pub.

Inside the Rocking Unicorn, the music was loud and the crowd was louder. Seeing that the players from Little Hangleton had already taken over the billiards room in the back, the three of them decided to plant themselves closer to the bar upfront, and the barman promptly Levitated out a platter of hamburgers, chips and pitchers of Warlock's Ale for Ron, Hermione, Fotheringill and the rest of the Otters as they straggled in, some with their wives or girlfriends in tow, others solo. To Ron's amusement, Fotheringill and eventually Newton and McGinnis flirted on and off with Hermione all night, but he'd been teammates with them all long enough to know that, now that the lines were drawn, none of them would overstep. They were pretty upstanding guys that way. The fact that Hermione regularly sought him out with her eyes in the crowd — occasionally gifting him with a small smile that he knew was just for him — certainly helped to ease his mind.

The truth was, he was chuffed that his teammates seemed to approve of Hermione, and as his buddies kept her entertained with a game of darts, he had time to hang back and appreciate her from afar. In the heat of the pub, she'd peeled off her turtleneck and was down to a tight black T-shirt and black jeans over leopard-print calfhair ballet flats. The act of removing her jumper had mussed up her braid a bit so that loose curls were dancing about her cheeks, which were pink from the warmth of the room and perhaps, Ron thought, from the last glass of Warlock's Ale she'd downed. He noted that he ought to cut her off after this one — she wasn't used to wizarding ale, and it was strong — but in the meantime, gods, she was pretty, wasn't she. Ron leaned his back against the bar and propped one leg up on the foot of the barstool next to him, half listening to Frawley and the barman discussing the ins and outs of home-brewing Daisyroot Draught and watching the boys allow Hermione to win yet another game of darts. He smiled at the sight, but he began to hope she would rejoin him and perhaps express a desire to head home.

It was to his great delight, then, that Hermione snaked through the throng and returned to his side. "I can only pretend that I don't know they're taking it easy on me for so long," Hermione said with a grin as she leaned her back against the bar next to him and reached for the glass of Dragon Barrel Brandy that he'd been nursing and took a sip. Handing the glass back to him, she leaned her shoulder against his upper arm and said, "Your teammates have a lot of good things to say about you."

Ron laughed and smiled down at her. "Are you sure they were talking about me?"

"Quite sure. They say you're what's kept them in the running for the playoffs this year, and from what I saw tonight, I don't doubt it."

"Erm, well," Ron said, raising his free hand to the nape of his neck and looking at her sideways, "there's more to winning than goalkeeping, 'course. I mean, we've always had a strong bludger game, and we triangulate well, too, which is hugely important, especially in penalty situations, so…"

Hermione crossed her arms and shook her head. "You have a hard time taking a compliment, don't you?" she said, tilting her head and looking at him out the corner of her eye.

"Well, I don't know about that," he replied, casting his eyes downward and cursing his rapidly heating ears and rubbing his neck more firmly.

To his surprise, Hermione burst out laughing at this, leaning in closer against his shoulder in the process.

"Oi, what's so funny?" Ron replied with an open-mouthed grin.

Still chuckling, Hermione dropped her eyes to the floor and bit her lip. "It's just that you're adorable sometimes, that's all," she answered, lifting her eyes to him while keeping her chin tilted downward. "You really have no idea, do you." She was well aware that had she not had that last Warlock's Ale, she might never have dared say anything of the sort. But as it was, it had slipped out, and she found that she didn't entirely mind.

Ron was so surprised — pleasantly so — that it took him a moment to formulate a response, but in that time, Hermione spoke again. "I'm going to step into the ladies' quickly," she said, gesturing toward the loos on the far side of the billiard room toward the back of the pub, "and then, well … it's getting a bit late, isn't it?"

Still too awestruck to speak, Ron merely raised his glass to her and watched with a disbelieving smile as she bobbed and weaved away from him through the crowd, his heart beating so hard he could feel it in his ears. He was about to turn to Frawley and begin making his farewells when he saw that the Little Hangleton blokes had taken keen notice of Hermione as she passed and, quickly downing the last of his brandy, he decided to keep a close eye out for her until she returned.

A few minutes later, she emerged from the ladies' room and sidestepped one of the Harriers but was stopped in her tracks by the largest of them, a thick-necked Chaser who swiftly lowered his billiards cue like a toll gate in front of Hermione. Ron couldn't hear what he was saying to her, but her distressed expression — which Ron could see plainly from over the heads of those he was pushing out of his way to get to her — told him all he needed to know.

Ron had undergone years of Auror training in which he internalized the wisdom of using the minimal force necessary to defuse a given situation. As he swiftly barreled his way through the swarm of revelers standing between him and the billiards room, however, those finely-honed responses did battle with his inborn instinct to make a beeline for that Hangleton blighter and hex him within an inch of his life. Thus it was a torn and quite agitated Ron Weasley who seconds later broke through the crowd and into the circle of Harriers surrounding Hermione, his expression thunderous, his jaw set, and his wand wrapped tightly in his white-knuckled hand.

Hermione — who had shrunk away from the thick-necked man blocking her path only to bump up against the Harrier she'd just sidestepped — sighed in relief when Ron arrived, but when she noted his expression, her reassurance was quickly replaced by apprehension.

"Let the lady pass," Ron said menacingly.

The man holding the billiard cue in front of Hermione, whose wobbling stance suggested he was well in his cups, was about to fire off a stinging retort until his blurred vision focused and he realized precisely who was addressing him.

Visibly shrinking and shooting a nervous look at Ron's wand, the man said in an exaggeratedly amiable tone, "Oi, no need for that, man. Just having a little fun."

Ron took a deep breath through his nostrils and tipped his head toward Hermione. "The lady doesn't seem to be enjoying herself," he replied warningly, lifting his wand by just an inch.

"All right, all right," the thick-necked guy sputtered, lifting his billiards cue to let Hermione pass. Hermione, in turn, quickly darted to Ron's side and, in a swift motion, Ron grasped her forearm and tucked her neatly behind him, never averting his eyes from the Harriers.

"That's the last time you lot'll be pulling shite like that, yeah?" Ron growled. In his imagination, he was actively playing out what he really wanted to do — namely, cast a Body-Bind Curse on the lot of them and toss them in the pond out back — but instead he swept a red-faced Hermione away from there as fast as he could. As they retreated into the crowd, Hermione distinctly heard the taller scrote who'd boxed her in from behind swear at the thick-headed prat who'd caused the trouble to begin with: "Bleeding eedjit — he's fecking Auror!" And, without thinking, she clung that much tighter to Ron's arm, hoping the increased contact would quell the trembling that was overtaking her now that the danger had passed.

Ron felt her quaking and the sensation made his blood boil, but he didn't want to make too much of it for fear that he might make Hermione self-conscious. Instead, he led her to the table where the Otters crowd had been assembled all night and, waiting as she collected her things, he bid a brisk adieu to his teammates. If they had noticed his haste, they chalked it up to Ron's desire to get Hermione alone somewhere for a proper snog — though they couldn't know that all Ron was really doing was scolding himself for exposing Hermione to such a place to begin with. Clearly she was a high-class girl who was unaccustomed to hanging out in a low-rent dive like the Unicorn — how thick could he be for bringing her here?

Hermione sensed his agitation but chose to wait until they were alone to attend to it. After many goodbyes to the team and the women she'd met in the stands that night, Hermione finally placed her hand in Ron's, noting how quiet he'd gotten, and allowed him to lead her outside.

They were halfway down the street before Ron, who was still clutching his wand tightly in his other hand, could manage to speak without sounding as angry at himself as he felt.

"Hermione, I'm so sorry," he finally said, not daring to look at her as they walked.

He was startled when Hermione stopped and placed a hand soothingly on his upper arm. "Ron, you have nothing to apologize for."

"I shouldn't have let you go back there alone," he said scathingly. "I shouldn't have—"

"Ronald, you're being ridiculous!" Hermione cut in, shocking him from his inner tirade.

Looking down at her, he saw that her lips were pursed defiantly, as if she was daring him to contradict her. "I bear some of the blame for what happened, Ron," she continued before he could gather his thoughts. "I should have had my wand with me, but I didn't. If I'd been thinking more clearly, you wouldn't have had to rescue me like that — as we speak right now, those berks would be trying to undo the Jellylegs Jinx that I'd cast on them."

Ron smiled at this notion reflexively despite his pique, but he couldn't let himself off the hook that easily. "Hermione, that doesn't change the basic facts. I took you to a dodgy place and I didn't do enough to take care of you. If those tossers had laid one finger on you—" Ron stopped then, aware that his voice had dissolved into a croak as a wave of emotion nearly choked him.

"Shh," Hermione said then, stepping closer and tipping her face before him to try to catch his gaze. "Hey," she continued at a softer tone when he'd finally managed to meet her eye, "you looked out for me quite well, Ron. Those guys knew better than to mess with you, and here I am — entirely safe, entirely fine."

He swallowed hard. "Still…"

"I had a wonderful time tonight, Ron," she cut in before he had a chance to sink back into self-chastisement. "I daresay I am still having a wonderful time. Please, let's not let a handful of knobheads spoil it."

Ron exploded with full-throated laughter at this, nearly doubling over at the sound of Hermione's prim and proper voice enunciating a word as uncouth as "knobheads."

After a minute, he straightened up and, stretching himself to his full height, he forced himself to sober up a bit. "OK, you win," he said then with a rueful sigh. "I guess all that matters is that you're OK." Then, placing both hands on her shoulders, he looked deep into her eyes. "You are OK, yeah?"

She nodded, feeling her heart flutter in her chest as his deep blue eyes focused so intently on her that her cheeks began to heat up.

"Let's get you home then," he said softly. "Ready?"

She nodded, knowing this meant he would be Side-Alonging her back to Sevenoaks, and she braced herself for the odd dizzy feeling that she was beginning to think she might never overcome whenever she Disapparated.

oooOOOooo

 _A/N — I've been surprised and, frankly, more than a little hurt by the feedback I have received from a small handful of anonymous reviewers regarding this fanfic. Here's a sampling:_

 _ooooooooo_

 _From: Guest_

 _:I am sorry but this is just wrong. If you take some themes from another story, like Hermione growing up as a muggle.. okay, that's fine. But this is a clear rip off, the first chapter is nearly exactly the same as TOSOL._  
 _Believe me, I think you are a good writer, but a bit more originality would do you some good._

 _ooooooooo_

 _From: a rip off (Guest)_

 _a rip off:I am very disappointed, you can't call this 'inspired'. There is a big difference between a story that is inspired by an idea, or writing the exact same scene of the first chapter of The Other Side of Life. But it is very original that you changed 'coffee shop' into 'tea shop'._

 _ooooooooo_

 _Story: Fate or Fortune_  
 _Chapter: 1. Chapter 1_

 _From: Guest_

 _:I'm a big fan of your original work, but I have to be honest... this feels like straight up plagiarism to me. With The Way We Will Be, at least you could say it was a spin off of sorts but this is practically a word for word copy... I just feel like there's probably a better way you could've executed this._

 _ooooooooo_

 _Me again ..._

 _As a professional writer and editor by day, I take allegations of plagiarism seriously. So I spent a good, long time thinking about whether I ought to just drop this whole thing rather than continue to do something that might cross that line. The only reason I continued to write the chapter that I just posted, honestly, is that a reader named chemrunner57 gave me the support I needed to continue. So, if you enjoyed this most recent chapter, you really ought to thank him, because I was this/close to blowing the whole thing up and deleting the entire story this week._

 _After getting slammed for riffing off of kjc1123's work, I went back and looked at her original author's notes to "TOSOL" and had to laugh: She notes that she was inspired to write her story after reading two other AU fics. So … go figure._

 _Frankly, I'm still struggling with these reviews despite chemrunner's advice to simply ignore them, and it's very possible that I'll declare this fic finished after this chapter. Sometimes I wonder if readers and reviewers realize that the stuff they're reading is created by real, live people who are writing for sheer enjoyment and hoping to share that enjoyment with others. If you're going to review my work or that of any other fic writer, please stop and think about that before you flame them._

 _Anyway ... I should drop it, I suppose. I may or may not be back with another chapter. In the meantime, if you're looking for a good Romione read in my absence, check out Wildegreenlight on Tumblr. She's doing some wonderful stuff there right now._

 _Take care,_

 _Holly._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

 _A/N — I confess I'm a bit awestruck by the positive and heartwarming reviews that flowed in after I posted the last chapter. Thanks so much for all of your support. I hope I can live up to such warm and sincere praise!_

 _Holly._

oooOOOooo

A moment later, they landed on Hermione's doorstep. After straightening up and getting their bearings, Hermione reached into her purse and produced her wand, waving it neatly over the lock and smiling to herself as it opened with a tiny click. Tucking her wand back into her purse, she turned to Ron and, looking up at him through her lashes, she gathered the courage to say, "Would you … would you care to come up?" She hurried to add, "for a cup of tea, perhaps?"

As it happened, Ron was fairly gagging to get back into Hermione's flat, but given her emotional state after that strange encounter at the pub, he didn't want to take advantage. Smiling down at her, he took the hand he'd been holding since they left the pub in both of his and lifted it to his chest. "Hermione, I'd love to come up, but only if you're sure you'd like the company."

Hermione, who had been quick to interpret Ron's reticence as disapproval of her forwardness, was experiencing a mild wave of panic at that moment, and sputtered, "I have herbal. Herbal tea, that is. If it's too late for black tea, I mean."

Ron chuckled at her obvious nervousness. "Herbal sounds perfect," he said reassuringly and, with that, she took a deep breath and, still holding his hand, she led him through the entryway and up the stairs to her flat, wondering the whole time what he might think of her for inviting him up — and questioning whether she'd have the willpower to resist his advances if things got too heated.

Shaking off these thoughts as they entered he flat, she smiled and said, "make yourself at home," as she lit a lamp and a few candles with her wand and gestured toward the sofa. She let go of Ron's hand in order to drop her purse and the tartan blanket on the table next to the door, then turned toward the kitchen intending to put the kettle on. But before she could take another step, Ron reached out and caught her hand in his, and she stopped to look at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

"I have a confession to make," Ron said, smiling despite his jitters at the stubborn curl that always seemed to escape her hairstyles and fall becomingly beside her chin.

"Oh?" she said at a near-whisper, her breath suddenly taken away by the sight of Ron Weasley standing in her entryway in the warmth of the candleglow, his hair and even his coppery eyelashes glistening in the flickering light.

He tugged gently at her hand and felt his heart flutter when she responded by taking a step nearer to him, her eyes searching every corner of his face. "I don't really want any tea," he said softly through a lopsided grin.

"Oh," she said absently, her eyes still drinking him in. With his free hand, he touched that lock of hair that had so often fascinated him and wrapped it around his finger once, then twice, before dropping it and cradling her cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her lips. She stepped an inch closer, tipping her face up to him and, closing the remaining distance between them, Ron dropped her hand, looped his arms around her waist and drew her to him.

The pressure of his lips on hers was soft and sweet at first, but it soon intensified, and Hermione responded with a low moan as she sank her fingers into his hair, thankful that his muscular grip was keeping her upright, for she couldn't have done it herself, light-headed as she was.

Her throaty moan against his lips tripped a taut cord in Ron's mind, and the restraint that he'd summoned to keep his passions in check disintegrated as her arms encircled his neck. When Hermione parted her lips to allow him to deepen the kiss, he tightened his arms about her waist and lifted her off the ground. She let out a short peep of surprise against his lips but then strengthened her hold on his neck and wrapped her legs around his torso, pulling his lower lip between her teeth as Ron carried her to the sofa and collapsed into it.

Hermione found herself straddling Ron's lap at this point, and it occurred to her that this was hardly the most ladylike position, but the shimmer of electricity that passed through her as Ron rubbed her back in his broad hands quickly chased that notion from her head. Leaning against his chest, she parted her lips more widely to accept him, and it wasn't long before she was exploring his mouth with her tongue nearly as boldly as he was exploring hers.

Ron meanwhile continued to run his hands from her shoulders to her waist and back again, each stroke drifting further downward until he was quite shamelessly cupping her bum through the fabric of her jeans. The feel of her little hands exploring his chest, his neck, his cheeks and his hair was causing ripples of warmth to flow throughout his body, and with the full weight of her pressed and writhing against his lap, he was beginning to realize, despite his distraction, that they ought to change positions lest she become aware of exactly how turned on he really was.

It took all the self-control he could muster, but he broke his lips from hers then and shifted her so that she was seated sideways next to him with her legs draped across his. Pulling back to look at her, he smiled to see that she was as short of breath as he was, a glassy-eyed smile gracing her pink and swollen lips.

Hermione chuckled at that moment and bit her lower lip. He raised his eyebrows, and she answered his unspoken question. "I seem to have done quite a number on your hair, that's all," she said, and she reached up to straighten the locks that she had so passionately pushed in a hundred different directions.

"I'm afraid your braid is pretty much done for, too," Ron said teasingly, pulling off the hair tie that held in place what remained of her french braid and tossing it to the ottoman. Hermione loosened her hair with her fingers, causing her curls to tumble about her shoulders. She then leaned into the space between Ron arm and his chest and looked up at him, rather awestruck by the view from close up. From this vantage point, she could better see how beautiful his skin was, milky white and sprayed quite literally everywhere with a fine mist of ginger-colored freckles. Beneath the freckles, his cheeks were rosy. He'd shaved earlier that evening, it would seem, but a trace of his coppery beard was beginning to show on his well-angled jawline. His eyes were as astonishingly blue as ever but, up close, she could see that they were actually deep green at the center — something she hadn't discerned before — reminding her of the color of the Mediterranean Sea which had so fascinated her on holidays with her parents. He was stunning, but unlike other good-looking men in her acquaintance, he seemed largely unaware of it. The scantily clad fans who had tried to get his attention at the stadium earlier that evening — and at the pub later — entered her mind, and she marveled anew that he hardly seemed to notice their flirtatious presence, almost as if he didn't perceive that he could inspire such devotion. She couldn't quite explain why, but she found this aspect of his personality immensely endearing.

With these thoughts spinning through her head, she reached up and caressed his cheek. He let her do so for a few moments before lifting her hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, planting a kiss on her palm and then letting their joined hands settle onto his chest, where he kept her hand wrapped tightly in his.

When she'd settled herself next to him a bit earlier, he'd looped one arm around her shoulders, and he pulled her close just then and planted far more innocent but lingering kisses on her forehead, her nose and finally her lips. Sighing deeply, he shifted his gaze to their joined hands atop his chest, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.

They sat that way in contented silence for a few minutes, Hermione savoring the feel of his heartbeat beneath her hand, until Ron spoke again. "I have another confession to make," he said at a low tone, returning his eyes to hers.

Hermione curled herself tighter against him in anticipation.

Gathering his courage, he took a deep breath and said what had been on his mind all night. "I'm falling for you, Hermione — quite hard, it must be said."

The simplicity of this declaration made her heart stop for a second or two, though the pause seemed longer to both of them. Ron felt a frisson of panic at her astonished expression, only to let go of the breath he'd been holding when he saw a bright smile bloom on her face and tears pool in her eyes.

"I, I think I'm falling for you too," she answered at a whisper, blinking back her tears. "Though I wouldn't know for sure," she continued. "I've never … well, I've never felt this way before."

"Really?"

"Honestly."

Ron knew that by now he was probably grinning like a nutter, but he didn't care. The girl who had dominated his thoughts for weeks was now in his arms and declaring that she might feel something for him, too, and he was over the moon. His bright expression was contagious, and soon Hermione was laughing softly, causing the tears that had been brimming in her eyes to come tumbling down her cheeks.

Letting go of her hand, Ron brushed her tears away with the back of his finger before resting his hand on the side of her neck and pulling her close for another long kiss. "I've never felt this way before either," he whispered against her lips. "Never."

"Oh Ron," she murmured, caressing his upper arm, and Ron pivoted so that they were facing one another a bit more directly, the better to angle his lips against hers.

"Mione," he murmured, breaking away from her lips to draw breath before plunging back in. A few minutes later, he came up for air again and, rubbing his nose against hers, he whispered, "I'm arse over cauldron for you, honestly," then pulled back to look at her. "Is it mad that I feel this way so soon?" he asked, studying her face.

She shook her head slightly. "Maybe it is mad, but then I must be mad, too," she said, leaning her cheek against his arm took catch her breath.

Her statement gave him the courage to mention something he'd been wondering about almost from the very moment he'd met her. "Feels like I've known you my whole life — or, I dunno, like I was meant to know you, or that I've met you before, know what I mean? I know that sounds mental."

She nodded and touched his lips experimentally and he smiled beneath them, kissing her index finger lightly. Then she drew back and looked at him, her expression suddenly frank and sober. "When I met you in Hogsmeade, I actually felt as if I recognized you, strange as it sounds. Could I have seen you when you were on that stakeout across from the tea shop?"

"I used an Auror-level Disillusionment charm," he said with a shake of the head. "No way you could have seen me."

"Strange," she said. "The sensation was so real — I can't tell you how many times I've questioned it since then. I'm normally a very logical person, very skeptical of airy-fairy ideas like fate or fortune. But since I met you, I've had to reconsider."

Ron rested his head on the back of the sofa and took her hand in his, and they watched as they wove their fingers together over and over and as they each gathered their thoughts.

"I had a teacher back at Hogwarts — the headmaster, really — his name was Albus Dumbledore. Maybe you've heard of him."

She nodded.

"He talked sometimes about elemental magic — the forces that animate everything, stuff we wizards can tap into but that we can't entirely control," he said slowly. Taking a long breath in through his nostrils and then exhaling through a smile, he continued. "I think maybe there's some of that going on here," he said, lifting their joined hands to his chest and then to hers before dropping them back to their previous resting place on her hip. "I think this is very old magic indeed."

Hermione was astonished with herself that she'd been moved to tears so many times in the course of one evening, but there it was — it couldn't be helped. She sniffled, wishing for the millionth time that she could have studied under Albus Dumbledore herself, and wondered if perhaps somewhere in that ancient castle's vast Library there might be a book that could explain the sort of magic Ron was describing.

Seeming to read her thoughts, he added, "You can't really understand this kind of magic by reading about it in a book. It's meant to be experienced. That's all."

She shrugged and smiled. "I'm sure you're right. I'm enjoying the experience thus far."

"Are you?" he asked wryly. "It's made me dead miserable sometimes."

She laughed. "How do you mean?"

Straightening up a bit, he unwound his fingers from hers and drew his hand upward over her arm, then her shoulders, her neck and finally her cheek. "I've tossed and turned more than a few nights, for one thing, wondering if you might feel the same, wondering if maybe I was doomed to feel this way about you without any hope that you might feel it, too. In the early days, I thought maybe you might have a boyfriend—"

"I don't have a boyfriend," she said anxiously, cutting him off. "I've never had a boyfriend, actually" she continued before she could think better of it. It was embarrassing, something she never admitted out loud to anyone: She was 25 years old and she'd never had a proper boyfriend. She didn't know why she was telling him this just now. It was probably an enormous mistake. But his candor somehow sparked similar candor in her. She was so preoccupied with these doubts that she almost didn't notice the look of surprise that had crept across his face.

"Wait, you mean … are you joking?" he said, sitting up a little straighter.

She shook her head, and he could see she was sincere.

"How, I mean … bloody hell, how is that even possible?"

She shrugged.

"You're so smart, so sweet … what's the matter with muggles, are they blind?"

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. "I'm fairly certain there's no difference between muggle vision and wizarding vision," she said. Ron shook his head at this and let out a mirthless laugh.

"Don't get the wrong idea. I've gone out on dates," Hermione replied, then pursed her lips, her cheeks pinking up with embarrassment as she looked downward to gather strength to say more. "I've been kissed a few times. But it's never gone beyond that."

Lifting her eyes to Ron's, she saw him nod encouragement. He was listening.

She huffed impatiently, searching for the right words. "It's just that, well, my true self, my magical self … I'm sure a born-and-raised wizard like you can't imagine it, but … I was raised to think that my magical abilities were something to be kept strictly concealed, something I was never to talk about. So, being magical became, for me, a dreadful secret. And, well, it's hard to be intimate with someone, truly intimate, if they can't know the truest thing about you."

As he listened, Ron felt his chest tighten at the thought of what she'd been through. He knew her magic was powerful — he'd been at the receiving end of it, after all — and he couldn't imagine what it must have been like for her to be forced to stuff it down all her life, to actually be ashamed of it. Not for the first time, he felt a glimmer of anger toward her parents for making her suffer so — though he tried to remind himself that they likely did what they did with the best of intentions. As she spoke, it also dawned on him that if she'd never done more than kiss a man before, he was very likely going to have to be much more careful than he was already being with her. The last thing he wanted to do was to pressure her for more physical contact than she might be ready to handle.

"I'm sorry, I really am," he whispered. "Must have been lonely for you sometimes."

Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, Hermione gave him barely perceptible nod, knowing she could do no more than that without dissolving into tears.

"You're not alone anymore," he said, brushing her cheek again with the back of his finger. "And you don't have to keep secrets from me," he added at a softer tone, before whispering through the ghost of a smile, "unless you want to, that is."

oooOOOooo

 _A/N — Once again, I have to thank all of you who took the time to share your thoughts and have encouraged me to keep going with this story. It means more than I can say, honestly. And a special thanks to chemrunner57!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N — This chapter bears some resemblance to Chapter 9 of "The Other Side of Life."_

oooOOOooo

 **Chapter 17**

The next morning, as promised, Ron appeared at Hermione's doorway at 10 a.m. She had originally suggested 8 o'clock, but seeing as it was approaching 1 o'clock in the morning when he'd finally torn himself away from her to Disapparate homeward, he begged her for a few extra hours of shuteye and she reluctantly agreed, but only after extracting an extra kiss from him as a reward for her patience. Her eagerness to learn to fly was adorable — she'd practically jumped for joy when he suggested it — but even Ron had his limits. He was never one to get by on less than a good eight hours of sleep.

Even so, he'd sprung out of bed that Saturday morning with more energy than he had felt in ages — perhaps ever. He had an entire day free and clear, and Hermione Granger was willing to spend it with him. Leaning out his bedroom window, he'd noted with a grin that conditions were quite good for flying. An overcast sky would be ideal, but the partly cloudy skies and light breezes that prevailed over Devonshire that morning would certainly be more picturesque.

The buzzer which always rattled his nerves blared out, and Ron pushed the door open to find a fresh-faced Hermione waiting for him on the landing at the top of the stairs, dressed as he'd suggested she should for a fly, in jeans, which she'd paired with a pretty floral blouse. He wordlessly climbed the steps two at a time to meet her and, without pausing, pulled her into his arms and planted a deep kiss on her lips, the kind that turned her knees to jelly. When he pulled away a moment later to plant a small peck on her nose and then her forehead, she sighed and said, "Well, good morning to you, too."

"Good morning indeed," he said with a kiss on the top of her head. "Are you ready to fly?"

"Very ready," she said with an excited grin. "A bit scared, but ready."

"Got your wand?"

"Check."

"Good. Oh, and do you have that tartan blanket?"

"No," she said, her forehead scrunched in confusion, "but I can go get it."

"No worries — hang on," he replied and, with a flourish of his wand, he Accioed the blanket and then Reducioed it so it would fit in the messenger bag he had strapped across his torso. He kissed her lips quickly then and said, "I packed us a picnic lunch, but I realized too late that I didn't have a blanket."

"Oh," she said happily. "You didn't have to do that — make lunch, I mean. But thank you."

"You don't understand," he said as he took her hand and led her down the stairs to the front door, "lunch is as much for me as it is for you. Flying makes me hungry."

They Side-Alonged and landed in the midst of some of the most beautiful countryside Hermione had ever seen. The landscape, dotted with stands of trees and etched with tumbledown stone walls, was like a rolling, hilly carpet of green and gold that stretched as far as the eye could see. As she straightened up and got her bearings, she turned and beheld a rather large ivy-covered stone cottage at the top of the hillside that sloped just behind them, its slate-tiled roof glinting in the late-morning sun.

"This is my place," Ron said simply.

Hermione looked up at him in astonishment. "This — what? This entire house?"

He laughed at her open-mouthed grin and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. "This house and all the land from here to those stone walls in the distance, yeah. Welcome to Vine Cottage. I'll give you a tour."

With that, he took her up the path to the wide slate steps leading to the covered porch that wrapped around the entire perimeter of the house, the roof overhead held up by wide stone pillars. The round-topped wooden door at the front of the house was flanked on either side by a wide set of mullioned windows, and Hermione could see that they'd been freshly polished to a high shine. Looking up at Ron, she could see that he fairly glowed at her reaction to the place. And he did. He'd been watching her reaction, hoping she'd like what she saw, and he was pleased to see that she seemed impressed.

"It's stunning, Ron," Hermione said, noting the scent of roses and lilac wafting through the breeze as they stood on the wide porch.

Ron shrugged. "I've only just started working on it, really — and it does need a ton of work," he said, running his hand over the weathered oak door. "I think the house was built by my great-great-grandfather or my great-great-great-grandfather — my dad knows for sure. Anyway, when my Uncle Bilius died a few years ago, I found out he'd left it to me, but I wasn't quite ready to take it on. I'd been living with Harry at a house of his in London after the war, getting a taste of city life. But then Ginny moved in about two months ago, and it just seemed like the right time to try living here."

He opened the latch with a flick of his wand and held the door open for Hermione, who stepped through and into the foyer with a gasp of astonishment.

The entryway was paneled with a warm-colored quarter-sawn oak. Through the archway to Hermione's right, she noted a sitting room with a beamed ceiling that ran the entire length of the house, dominated by a giant stone fireplace surrounded by built-in oak bookcases. At the far end of the room, French doors opened up onto the back porch and overlooked the garden beyond. Sunlight poured in through the mullioned windows that lined the front of the house as well as two small square windows flanking the fireplace chimney.

Hermione gasped and dropped his hand to step inside and look around. "What a beautiful room," she said.

"Thanks — I agree," he said, placing his hands on his hips and giving the room and appraising look. "I haven't had time to think about furniture yet, though."

"That's understandable. It's a big room," Hermione said as she turned in a circle to take it all in.

"It is. And I didn't really have any furniture when I moved in," he added as he strolled toward the fireplace. "Grimmauld Place was already furnished when Harry and I moved in there, so … well, I never really gave any thought to things like sofas or armchairs."

"Hmm," she answered, stepping toward him and taking his hand. "I'd love to see the rest."

They crossed the front hall and entered a large dining room rimmed with wainscoting of the same rich quarter sawn-oak as in the foyer. At the far end of the room was another hearth, though smaller than the one in the lounge. A gigantic, sturdy-looking oak dining table occupied the center of the room. "The table is as old as the house," Ron noted, "but there are no chairs. I'll have to scare some up."

"It's gorgeous," Hermione said, running her hand over the well-worn tabletop. "And I suppose the kitchen's through there?" she asked, gesturing toward a swinging door with a porthole-sized window.

Ron pushed open the door and held it for her as she stepped into a room that was fairly spilling over with sunlight streaming in through a wall of windows framing a verdant garden out back. To the right of a chaming little breakfast nook was a tiny loo as well as an archway leading back to the main sitting room.

Hermione spun in place, taking it all in. "Ron," she breathed through a beaming smile, "this place is fantastic. You're so lucky."

Ron knew he was very lucky indeed, but for reasons that were perhaps beyond Hermione's meaning. "Thanks," he said, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I'm glad you like it."

"There's so much you could do with it," she continued, turning toward the windows and peering out to the back garden, which was lush and a bit overgrown, but Hermione could instantly imagine that with some work it could be spectacular.

Stepping behind her to look over her head through the window, he pointed southward. "Just over that hill there — about three miles down, I reckon — is my folks' place," he said. She looked back at him from over her shoulder, fighting to concentrate on his words though his proximity was quite distracting. "It's a bit of a hike, but my brothers and I used to walk down down that lane just there," he said, leaning closer to indicate a narrow, tree-lined path, and Hermione followed his gaze, "and we'd cross through Bilius's orchard to climb his apple trees and swim in his pond. You can see the water there just beyond the cherry grove."

And indeed she could. A small lake glimmered through the trees in the distance, and just then, several deer came into view to drink from it. "Beautiful," Hermione said dreamily, then caught herself in time to resist a very strong desire to lean back against Ron's chest and be enveloped in his arms. Despite everything they'd done and said the night before, Hermione awoke that morning wrestling with a worry that she'd perhaps been a bit immodest at times — she blushed anew at the memory of sitting quite squarely upon his lap — and she decided she ought to be a bit more careful today not to push herself on him. The last thing she wanted was to give him reasons to think of her as just another groupie. He had enough of those in his life, it would seem.

She couldn't have known that Ron at that moment was warring with his own impulse to pull her to him, wrap his arms around her waist, and rest his chin atop her head as they gazed through the windows. But he'd held back, reckoning that such a gesture might be overly familiar — and he reminded himself that, given her inexperience, he'd be wise to take it slow. Still, her scent, a blend of vanilla and lilacs and coconut and Merlin only new what else, was doing things to him that he found difficult to ignore.

Sobering up, Hermione searched for something to say to break the reverie that seemed to have overcome them both and spoke the first thing that came to mind. "So, are any of the rooms furnished?" she asked.

"Oh yeah, well, my bedroom, of course," he answered before realizing what he'd seemed to imply. "But, erm, that's upstairs," he hurried to say, unable to see Hermione's blush as she stepped away from him and toward the French doors. "That's it so far."

"Hmm," she said, paying a bit more attention than was absolutely necessary to the process of opening the doors and stepping out onto the back porch.

Ron followed and joined her as she leaned against the railing and breathed in the cool morning air. "So, you see that hill beyond the pond — the one with a grassy top that's sort of ringed by trees?" At her nod, she continued. "My brothers and I used to play Quidditch out there sometimes. I thought that would be a good spot for our flying lesson if you're ready."

"I'm very ready," she said with a grin.

"Great! Well, just a tick," he said, ducking back into the kitchen and pulling out two chilled bottles of pumpkin juice as well as a lidded wicker basket, then shrinking them all so they fit neatly inside his messenger bag.

Rejoining her on the back porch, he held out his hand and said, "Then we're off to the broomshed," then led her down the back stairs toward a small wooden shack on the edge of the orchard. Inside, Hermione was astonished and mildly amused to find the walls lined with racks full of brooms. He didn't have time to furnish his house, apparently, but the broomshed was well stocked.

"Wow," she breathed. "How many do you have here?"

Ron shrugged. "Only two or three of competition quality, really. The rest are vintage. I collect them. I'm refurbishing that one over there," he said, nodding toward an ancient-looking broom, propped up on a workbench, that was entirely stripped of its straws. "Family heirloom that one is — about 200 years old. Oh, and here's one," he continued, gesturing toward a shiny broom hanging beside him, "that one once belonged to Archibald St. Regis." He paused, looking for a sign of recognition in her face. Seeing none, he deflated a bit. "Well, he was probably the most famous Seeker of his age — before Harry, that is, though Harry never played professionally. St. Regis, though … well, anyway, nevermind."

"You think you're boring me, don't you?"

He smiled guiltily. "Sorry, I do go on about Quidditch and brooms sometimes."

"I'm not bored," Hermione said. "I'm fascinated actually. I'm a bit afraid of flying, to tell you the truth, so maybe it will help to know more about the broom you have in mind for me to try."

This statement seemed to restore Ron's spirits and, rubbing his hands together, he cast his eyes about the shed until his gaze fell upon a red-handled broom hanging on the far wall. "This one should do nicely. It's a good bit smaller than mine," he said, lifting it from its hook and sizing it up. "Not very fast, but that's OK for a novice flyer. It's a nice, forgiving little broom — responsive, but not in a hair-trigger way. It was Ginny's starter broom, so it's been well-loved."

This description satisfied Hermione, and Ron then Reducioed the little broom and tucked it into his messenger bag, taking Hermione by surprise.

"I thought we were going to fly," she said with a half-joking pout, squinting against the sun that streamed into the darkened shed as Ron opened the door.

Grabbing his own broom — a custom-made Nimbus 2004 — he held the door open wide and followed her outside. "Oh, we'll fly, no worries," he said, "but you said you've never flown on a broom before, yeah?"

"No, never."

"Well, your first flying experience really shouldn't be solo," he said. "You need a chance to get used to the sensation of being up in the air, so I reckoned we should start by having you ride with me."

Ron admitted to himself that he was perhaps mildly overstating the importance of making one's maiden flight with a partner — though it was indeed true that most young witches and wizards did indeed start out flying piggy-back. Still, knowing that this meant Hermione would be pressed up against him for the length of their flight was hardly a downside, and his ears flared a bit guiltily. Hermione didn't seem to notice — because she, too, was beginning to piece together the logistics of the situation, and the slow-dawning prospect of flying through the air with her arms wrapped around Ron Weasley had a certain undeniable appeal.

"OK, well, I've always been a little bit afraid of heights, so go easy on me," she said, tying her hair into a tight bun to keep it from whipping about in the wind.

"Of course," he said with a reassuring smile.

Then came the hard part. Ron had learned to ride a broom almost as soon as he could walk, and never before had the, well, the fairly suggestive action of mounting a broomstick between one's legs occurred to him. In the current situation, however, it rapidly became fairly and uncomfortably obvious.

"So, erm," he mumbled, "so the person in back usually gets on first."

"OK," said Hermione, her cheeks coloring as the awkwardness of the situation crept into her consciousness.

After an uneasy pause, Ron said, "You're the one in back."

"Oh."

Hermione then stepped forward and swung her leg over the broom handle as Ron held it in place, followed by Ron who, with a gulp, mounted just ahead of her.

"You'll probably need to budge up a bit closer," Ron said. "And, uh," he said, taking one of her hands and pulling it around his torso, "you'll want to hold on tight to my middle, all right?"

"OK," Hermione said in a small voice, winding her arms tightly around Ron's abdomen and noting how firm and warm the muscles were beneath the Auror Department workout jersey he wore. Her grip tightened further when Ron Levitated the broom just enough so that their feet no longer touched the ground, drawing a gasp from Hermione as she pressed herself more firmly against his broad back.

With Hermione now clasping his middle and the broom now airborne, all awkwardness melted away for Ron: There were few places on Earth he felt more comfortable than riding a broom, and having Hermione Granger ride along with him made the experience that much better. "I'm going to take us up just a few feet above the treeline," he said over his shoulder, "but don't worry, I'll take it slow."

Hermione nodded and pressed her cheek against his shoulder, clinging tight and smiling madly despite her fear. As they rose above the treetops, Ron gently nudged the broom forward and soon they were slowly circling Vine Cottage, giving Hermione a view of the rambling hills and meadows that sloped downward from that point into the verdant valley of the River Otter in the middle distance.

"It's gorgeous," she breathed, and Ron couldn't help but smile with pride at her words. Devonshire was indeed gorgeous — he'd always thought so, and though he was glad that he'd spent a few years sowing his wild oats in London, his inner country boy was lately quite glad to have returned to the open spaces and fresh air of his boyhood home. It made him happier than he reckoned he ought to feel to find that Hermione appreciated the beauty of the place.

Casting a Disillusionment charm over them, he flew them down toward the river, which they skirted for a time, coasting above forests and glens and fields dotted with sheep. Hermione was glad she'd followed Ron's advice to wear jeans, because the air was indeed cooler up here than she'd expected. She was awed by the natural beauty laid out before her, a green valley sprinkled with lakes and ponds and rimmed on the horizon by mountains of deep blue-green. Ron pointed out local landmarks — including his Friday night team's Quidditch pitch, which she quickly recognized — and she was sincerely charmed by all of it, so much so that she was beginning to wonder if she was sounding a bit silly. She couldn't stop saying things like "beautiful" and "lovely," but, well, it was the truth.

Eventually Ron steered them toward a hilltop glade circled by a dense stand of trees and landed them gently on the grass.

"That was ah-maze-ing," Hermione said through a broad grin as she dismounted. Though she stumbled slightly before getting her bearings — Ron told her she hadn't quite gotten her broomlegs under her yet, but she would — she was bursting with energy, and Ron was delighted to see it. "No, you have no idea," she continued breathlessly. "I am thoroughly afraid of heights. But that was so fascinating and so enjoyable. Thank you so much."

"I'm glad you liked it," he said through a sincere smile. "Are you ready to try flying solo?"

It occurred to Hermione that without Ron's reassuring presence, her fear of heights might get the better of her, but she decided she ought to at least give it a go. "OK, let's try," she said, trying her best to sound brave.

Ron returned her broom to its regular size and showed her the proper way to hold it. "The most important thing to remember is that the broom will respond to the way you shift your weight. It's pretty straightforward: If you want to go left, then lean left a little bit. If you want to climb, pull up gently on the front of the broom handle. Downward? Same principle: Push down. Make sense?" Hermione nodded, and mounted her little broom while Ron explained the basics. "The broom will understand if you want to hover — all you need do to get started is to firmly kick off from the ground, like so," he said, demonstrating the motion. He was pleased to see that she was able to do it on the first try. "Very good. OK now, starting is fairly easy, but stopping is another matter."

"Oh dear."

"It's OK, I'm sure you'll get it, but I just want you to be aware that stopping is just a little bit trickier than some of the other maneuvers. The stopping command is sort of like the climbing command, in that you want to pull back on the handle slightly. But here's where stopping's different: After you pull up on the handle, you want to release it either to the right or to the left. Like this."

The glade Ron had chosen was about as big as a Quidditch pitch, and it afforded them enough room for Ron to fly aside Hermione and instruct her as she practiced hovering, turning and stopping at the reassuring altitude of about four feet off the ground. After circling the glade several times, stopping and starting the whole way, Ron felt Hermione was ready to try climbing and dropping, and led her up to a height of about ten feet.

Hermione felt a bit jittery this far from the ground, but she kept her mind on the task at hand and, though the going was a bit bumpy, she found she was able to climb and descend without too much difficulty. Controlling the pitch of her movements, however, was a challenge — she'd once started climbing and had been unable to stop until Ron flew up beside her and took control of her broom handle. Even so, Ron thought she was doing quite well.

They practiced in much this way for about an hour until Ron confessed he was famished.

"I'm a bit peckish too, it must be said," Hermione replied.

"I've always said, flying makes you hungry. Maybe we can practice more starting and stopping after lunch," Ron said and, easing his broom downward next to hers, he talked her through a very gentle landing on the grass below.

There were many places Ron could have taken Hermione for their flying lesson, but he chose this spot because it had always been a favorite since he'd discovered it during a long fly as a kid. The very crest of the hilltop afforded a view of the Devonshire countryside for miles around, but the forest that encircled it a few meters down from the peak also gave the space a cozy, private feeling, and Ron liked to think it was his own little sanctuary.

Picking up his messenger bag from the spot where he'd left it by the trees, Ron produced Hermione's tartan blanket, handing it to her before Levitating out a rather large picnic basket. They picked a grassy spot at the foot of a large aspen tree, where Hermione spread the blanket and sat cross-legged, watching with amazement as Ron knelt beside her and unpacked a remarkably succulent-looking lunch: Two enormous sandwiches of salami, cheese, pickles and mustard, as well as four apples, grapes, a bag of crisps, a tin of chocolate biscuits, and four bottles of chilled pumpkin juice.

"Wow," she said, eyeing the feast. "Thanks for this."

"My pleasure," he said. "Dig in."

She did with enthusiasm, noting that Ron was indeed right: Flying makes one hungry. Hungry as she was, however, she couldn't come close to finishing the enormous sandwich that Ron had prepared for her — though she shouldn't have been surprised that Ron was able to dispatch with her leftovers in three bites.

Reaching for the biscuits, Ron said, "I know you didn't think flying would be quite up your street but I've got to say, you've done pretty well with it."

"Thank you," she said as she took the biscuit he offered her and took a little nibble. "Though I admit it's a little embarrassing to be learning things at the age of 25 that most wizards are taught in their first year at Hogwarts."

Ron nudged the picnic basket to the far end of the blanket with his foot and, making a little pillow for himself out of navy Auror Department jumper that he'd stowed in his messenger bag, he stretched out, chewing on his biscuit thoughtfully. "You shouldn't feel that way, you know," he said quietly after a few moments. "I mean, it's not your fault." He wanted to tread lightly here — it wouldn't do to criticize her parents and yet, try as he might, he just couldn't bring himself to understand why they did what they did to Hermione. "You're brilliant, obviously. A fast learner. You'll catch up."

Hermione scoffed and popped the rest of her biscuit in her mouth, looking down at her criss-crossed legs and hoping the act of chewing would buy her time to gather her thoughts. Even so, when she spoke again, it was around a lump in her throat. "There's so much to learn," she said hoarsely. "It's a bit overwhelming sometimes. But I don't want to just learn the incantations — I want to learn the theory behind the spells, the history of them, how they were developed. I'm afraid there's no way I could master all that on the margins of my current life. It's just so frustrating."

"I can't imagine."

She looked at him then, a bit surprised to see that he was looking right at her, not with desire or mirth or pity but with an expression of total attention. He was listening intently to what she had to say. The realization sent a slight shiver through her.

"I'm certain you can't," she replied without bitterness. "Just as I can't imagine having parents who are magical, or who are OK with magic. You're so very fortunate."

Ron nodded. "You'll get no argument from me there," he said. "My family's tight. Been through a lot together. We never had much growing up, but we had each other — and my parents always encouraged us to do our best, to stand up for what was right."

Hermione shrugged and picked at the blanket in front of her. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea about my parents. They love me — they really do — and they've always encouraged me in their way, particularly in my studies. I never would have gotten into Oxford if it wasn't for their guidance."

"Hmm," he said, biting back his most honest reply.

"You're angry with them, aren't you," she said quietly, her gaze having sunk back to the blanket.

Ron rolled onto his side to face her and reached for her hand. "Hey, look at me," he said. "Hermione, look at me."

She lifted her teary eyes and saw his brow furrowed with concern. "I know your parents love you, and for that I'm grateful, I really am. But…" he said, pausing to find the right words. "But they also hurt you, I think," he continued, hurrying to add, "even if they didn't know they were doing it."

He tilted his head to be sure she was with him, and she nodded slightly to acknowledge the truth of his words.

"So, well, from there it's simple, really," he said. "I don't care who it is or why they did it: If someone hurts you, I'm not going to like it. If you're hurt, I'm hurt."

It took a moment for this simple statement to truly sink in, but when it did, the tears began to spill over Hermione's cheeks, and she leaned forward on one elbow to kiss him boldly and unreservedly, and Ron answered in kind, pulling her close until she was stretched out next to him on the blanket and kissing him passionately in the dappled shade of the aspen trees.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

All of Hermione's previous resolutions to maintain some semblance of propriety crumbled under the force of Ron's kiss. When it began, she'd been leaning atop him, one hand tucked against his cheek, the other roaming from his neck to his shoulder and up again, while Ron's arm clutched her waist. But they slowly shifted until, before Hermione knew it, Ron had tucked her beneath him, and when he wasn't running his tongue alongside hers, he was raining kisses on her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead and her nose.

Ron could taste her tears, which were still flowing. He knew she simply needed to let them out — she probably had decades' worth of tears to spill — and so he went about the task of kissing them away, whispering her name as he did so.

"Ron," she whispered back once she was able to find her voice, "do you really … I mean …"

He pulled back then, the better to see her tear-stained face.

She gave him a wan smile through her tears and raised her hand to his cheek, then traced his features with the tip of her finger: his knife-straight nose, his arched ginger brow, his lips, his squared-off jawline. Then she ran her fingers through the coppery fringe falling over his forehead. There he was, propped up above her on his elbow, patiently waiting for her to say what needed to be said. She'd been isolated for so long, had been so thirsty for a deep connection with another magical person, and now, here he was — someone her logical mind told her she barely knew, but someone her heart told her she could trust. She wanted to trust him, so desperately.

She rested her palm on his cheek and he leaned into it, never averting his arrestingly blue eyes away from hers.

"Are you real?" she finally whispered through a watery smile.

He laughed softly. "I think so."

She bit her lip and smiled. "I'm so glad I found you."

His smile widened by a fraction. "I believe it was I who found you."

"I suppose you did, didn't you."

"And I'm glad of it, too, for what it's worth," he said, turning his face slightly to plant a kiss on her palm. "Very, very glad."

Sinking her fingers into his hair then, she squinted to study his face that much more closely. "Why did you find me — I mean, there must be scores of people who walk past that tea shop every day, and yet you noticed me. It seems improbable that you would fix your thoughts on me. For all you knew, I was just another muggle."

He shook his head. "Another very pretty muggle," he said. "Beautiful, I daresay."

She blushed and shifted her gaze from his eyes to his chin. "Stop it."

"Stop what? It's true."

"Bollocks."

He leaned back, bending his arm to rest his temple on his fist. "You have a hard time taking a compliment, don't you, Granger," he said with a crooked grin.

She slapped his chest playfully. "Touché."

"Seriously, though," he continued. "You are beautiful, Hermione," he said, crooking his finger beneath her chin to pull her eyes back to him. "I get the feeling you haven't been told that enough."

Though he'd tipped her face toward him, her eyes remained cast downward, and her cheeks were aflame.

"I felt something the first time I saw you, though it took me a few days to work out what it was."

This statement drew her eyes to his like a magnet.

"Well, right away I could tell you were smart — that was easy to see," he said. "It was in your face, the way you carried yourself, the way other people responded to you. And I could see there was a kindness in you as well, and maybe a little sadness, too."

Hermione scoffed. "You could tell a lot from watching someone eat a scone, it would seem."

"I'm serious."

"Sorry, I know you are," she said apologetically, watching as he settled to lie next to her. She pivoted so that they were lying face to face, her cheek resting on his bicep, his head propped up by his crumpled-up jumper.

They laid that way, looking deeply into one another's eyes for what felt like hours but could only have been a few minutes, the only sound being that of the wind rustling the aspens overhead, the jubilant early summer birdsong, and their own breathing.

"You've seen a bit of my life," he said quietly after a few more moments.

She nodded slightly.

"People think … people think I'm a bachelor because that's how I want it — playing the field, you know?"

She nodded again, fearing that if she spoke, she'd somehow distract him from his purpose. She was hanging on every word.

"But that's not me. That's never been me," he continued. He paused, eyes roaming over her face, as he searched for the words to convey his meaning. "I've had fun, but I've wanted something more — know what I mean?"

Heart racing, she nodded again.

"And, well, you've seen … no doubt you noticed those girls at the stadium the other night."

She rolled her eyes and chuckled softly.

"Precisely," he said, reaching out to touch one of her curls and wrap it around his finger. "Harry's been famous from the time he was 11, and he always used to tell me it wasn't everything it was cracked up to be. I didn't believe him, of course, until it happened to me."

"How so?" she asked at a whisper.

He furrowed his brow, thinking hard. He didn't want to say the wrong thing, didn't want to say more than he ought to about how much she meant to him for fear of scaring her. But then again, he so wanted to be understood.

He let go of her lock of hair and dropped his hand to hers, clutching it against his chest.

"Back at Hogwarts, I always felt like I was looking for someone, but I couldn't find her. Then I got famous and … it got that much harder. All that 'war hero' shite … women were attracted to that, but…" He rolled his eyes and shrugged. "For a while, I settled for that — I was young, and hell, I didn't know any better. But it started to feel pretty … empty."

She flattened the hand he'd been holding against his chest, and he pressed it that much tighter against himself, so that she could feel his heartbeat, true and strong, beneath her palm.

"It must have been difficult to trust," she offered quietly, hoping to draw him out further.

He nodded. Silence fell between them again for a few moments. Hermione noticed how the breeze made his fringe flutter. Ron noticed how the dappled sunlight brought out the gold and auburn in her dark brown hair.

"Then there was you," he said at length, the deep sound of his voice almost startling her. "I reckon you're not the only one who's been lonely."

She sniffled, knowing that though he had only described the broad outlines of his life, she could comprehend what he meant. He was a man of deep feeling — and she guessed that few had appreciated just how deep he really was. His friends and family were pairing up; indeed, many had found one another long before the war and its aftermath had changed so many lives. Meahwhile, he'd been searching for something — a genuine connection — and was beginning to despair that he'd never find it. The thought made her heart throb with compassion for him, and not a little bit of pride that perhaps he might see such a possibility in her.

"You're not alone anymore," she said, her voice cracking with emotion, and he smiled to hear his own words echoed back to him.

They brought their lips together then, slowly and gently, their hands still joined on his chest.

Perhaps it was the warmth of the day, or the exertion of flying, the large lunch they'd just eaten, or the overwhelming emotions they'd both been trying to control, but soon their languid kisses gave way to sleepiness, and Hermione stifled a yawn against his cheek.

"There I go boring you again," he said jokingly.

"No, I think it's just that I'm so relaxed," she said, kissing his cheek, then his chin, before returning to his lips.

"Let's rest a bit then," he said after a few more gentle kisses. "I'm knackered, too." With that, he rolled over onto his back, carrying Hermione along with him until she was tucked snugly between his arm and his chest, her cheek resting comfortably on his shoulder.

"Thank you," Hermione murmured against his neck.

"For what?"

"For everything. For the lessons, for lunch … but mostly for telling me about your life."

"I want to tell you …" he said, trailing his fingers over her upper arm, "I want to tell you everything. But I should warn you about something."

Burying her face in the nook between his chin and his shoulder, she said, "What's that?"

He squeezed her shoulder and took a deep breath before continuing. "War hero and Auror I may be," he said quietly, "but my heart … well, I've found that it's breakable. Take care with it."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

The next thing Ron knew, he was tickled awake by a lock of Hermione's hair blowing in the breeze against his nose, and he blinked a few times before being able to focus his eyes on the aspen branches swaying high overhead against a blue-and-white sky. He had slept soundly, his face buried in Hermione's hair, and judging by her faint snores, she was still dozing. He smiled to himself, marveling that even her snores were adorable.

The position of the sun in the sky told him it was mid-afternoon. He stretched and yawned, and the movement awakened Hermione. "Oh dear," she mumbled, "I was out cold, wasn't I?"

"Mmm, so was I," he said, stretching again before planting a kiss on her forehead.

They slowly roused themselves, interspersing light kisses with yawns and sighs until they were both sitting up and feeling groggy but refreshed. After tidying up the remains of their lunch and stowing the picnic basket and blanket back in Ron's messenger bag, each wandered off in separate directions for a discreet loo break in the woods before returning and agreeing that they'd do a little more flying practice and then head back to Vine Cottage for teatime.

"OK, so, you were making great progress on the difference between climbing and stopping earlier," Ron said after they'd both mounted their brooms. "But we've been keeping to very low speeds. How would you feel about learning how to make the broom go a bit faster?"

"I think I'm ready," she said, trying to sound more certain than she truly felt.

"Right. Accelerating is all about leaning in. Remember watching Ginny fly at Holyhead? Well, I'm sure you saw that she practically had her chest in direct contact with the broom handle. You're not ready for anything like that, but leaning forward just a little bit will increase your speed gradually. Let's give it a try."

Hermione nodded and leaned forward a few degrees, emitting a little squeak of surprise when the broom chugged forward a bit faster than she expected.

"Don't worry, just hold your position and it'll even out," Ron advised, hovering in place as she slowly accelerated away from him.

"All right," she called over her shoulder. "How am I doing?"

"Wonderfully!" he called. "You could even lean in a bit more, but mind the trees ahead."

"Like this?" she shouted.

"Yes! Very good!"

She turned left then to stay within the outline of the trees, but she bobbled a bit as she did so and, as she leaned forward to try to restore her balance, the broom accelerated with a jerk. "Oh!" she cried. Though she was able to right herself quickly, she wanted nothing more than to feel solid earth beneath her feet, and she directed the broom to land.

"You're coming in too fast!" Ron shouted, but it was too late — she'd hit the ground hard, and her right foot twisted dramatically as she stumbled and then fell to the ground.

Ron was by her side in an instant, discarding his broom and kneeling beside her. "Are you all right, love?" he panted as he took her face in his hands.

"I, I think so," she said as she sat up, her cheeks burning in mortification.

"Good Godric, are you hurt?"

Hermione laughed and rubbed her elbow. "The only thing that's truly hurt is my pride, I believe."

"That's not funny. I saw you twist your ankle when you landed. Is it all right?"

"It's a bit sore, but I'm sure I'm fine."

Ignoring her assurances, he reached for her right foot and slipped off her trainer, tenderly turning her foot right and then left in his hands. "I don't think it's broken," he said as he ran his fingers firmly along the bones of her foot. When he reached her ankle, however, she couldn't suppress a little shout of pain. "Damn it, I'm so sorry, Hermione," he said quickly. "This is all my fault."

"Please, Ron, I'm fine — just a little tender, that's all. Here, help me up and let me show you. I'm quite certain I can walk on it."

He obliged, lifting her by her shoulders and holding her close to his side as she took a step. His heart sank, however, when she moved to put weight on her right foot and winced in pain. "Oh dear," she whispered then, "perhaps I hurt it a bit more than I realized."

"Shit," Ron muttered. "I should get you to a doctor."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Ron. And besides, all a doctor would do is put ice on it and tell me to keep it elevated."

Ron ran through the contingencies in his head. He had next to nothing back at Vine Cottage with which to treat such an injury — not much more than a box of plasters and a tray of ice. He really shouldn't Side-Along her to St. Mungo's. If she had any broken bones, Disapparating could be right painful. Ultimately, he decided he had only one option.

With a flourish of his wand, he Accioed their bags from the far end of the glade. "Here you go," he said, laying the strap of Hermione's purse across her shoulders while donning his own messenger bag and, noting that her foot had swollen considerably, he tucked her loose shoe in his bag. "Now, just relax," he said, lifting her in his arms and then Accioing his broom. He mounted it swiftly and placed her in front of him, settling her sideways across his lap. "Hang on to me. I've got you," he said reassuringly as he kicked off from the forest floor and pulled the broom up over the treeline.

"Where are we going?"

He chuckled grimly. "Well, this wasn't exactly the way I had pictured introducing you to my parents, but I'm taking you to The Burrow."

"The Burrow?"

"That's the name of the house where I grew up."

Hermione felt a flutter of panic at the idea. She was dressed in jeans — jeans that were now quite grungy — and her hair was probably a mess, and she hadn't had an opportunity to touch up her lipstick, and she was about to be presented at Ron's parents' doorstep with a foot the size of a Quaffle.

"Oh," she said quietly, and once Ron had set his course, he noticed her distraction and sought to reassure her.

"I know you won't believe this, but after you meet my Mum and Dad, you'll see I'm right: You have nothing at all to worry about," he said. "My Mum will be caught up for at least the first half hour with healing you up — she lives for that sort of thing — and my Dad will spend the rest of the time pumping you for information about muggle life. They'll love you. Don't worry."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh at this description. And besides, it seemed there was no arguing with him, so she decided not to worry and instead to enjoy the feel of flying in this new position, clinging closely to Ron's chest. He was flying faster and higher than she was used to — the better to get to The Burrow quickly, she reckoned — but the altitude was slightly unnerving at times, and as she pressed her face against his neck and clamped her eyes shut, she was surprised to find a feeling of calm overtake her. Ron was handling it, and she decided to trust that he knew best.

They landed gently on the periphery of what Hermione came to see, once she tore her face from Ron's neck, was a most eccentric but oddly charming-looking house. Actually, it appeared from the outside to be a stack of houses, one story upon another, almost as if it had been expanded to accommodate each additional member of the family — which Hermione quickly reminded herself that it probably was. The tidy and verdant front garden that greeted her brought a gleam to her eye, and she decided rather quickly that she very much liked The Burrow indeed.

When they alighted Ron's broom just outside The Burrow's protective wards, Ron swept Hermione into his arms, despite her protestations. "Really, Ronald, I'm quite capable of approaching the doorway on my own two feet," she scolded, but he ignored her, choosing instead to jokingly hike her into the air that much higher in an exaggerated attempt to show that he was staggering under her weight.

"Very funny," she drawled, only causing him to nearly collapse into giggles just as none other than his mother appeared in the doorway to see what all the fuss was about.

"Ronnie, dear," Molly Weasley called from across the front lawn, "what on Earth is going on out there?"

"Erm, sorry Mum," he said, kicking open the front gate and striding purposefully toward the house with a blushing Hermione in his arms.

When they arrived on the front porch, he angled himself so that Hermione and his Mum could see one another properly, though he was determined to keep Hermione in his arms until he could deposit her on the safety of one of the many cushy sofas in the lounge.

"Mum, this is Miss Hermione Granger. Hermione, please meet my mother, Mrs. Molly Weasley," he said with more formality than either Hermione or his mother knew he could muster.

"How do you do, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione said, reaching out to take Molly's hand from her awkward perch in Ron's arms. "I'm dreadfully sorry to meet you under these circumstances," Hermione continued, using her most Oxford-polished manners, "but I'm afraid, I may have sprained my ankle ever so slightly, you see, and—"

"I was teaching Hermione how to fly on a broom, Mum, and she screwed the pooch on a landing," Ron cut in.

"Ronald!" Molly scolded, "mind your language!" even as Hermione simultaneously slapped his chest and muttered, "Honestly, Ronald."

"Mum, much as I might enjoy holding Hermione in my arms, I'm going to have to put her down sometime," Ron said teasingly. "Do you mind holding the door?"  
Remembering herself, Molly stepped aside and pulled open the door. "Of course, of course — I'm so sorry," she said as Ron sidled through. "Come in … welcome, dear … right there, Ronnie, by the window so we'll have plenty of light."

Ron set Hermione gently on the sofa his mother indicated and, pulling up an ottoman, he placed her right foot atop it.

"Now, let's have a look at you, dear," Molly said smilingly as she settled onto the ottoman next to Hermione's foot. "Oh my, it is a bit swollen, isn't it," she murmured as she pressed her fingers against Hermione's foot and probed the bones for a break.

"I don't think it's broken," Hermione said, "and I'm sorry to cause all this fuss."

"Oh nonsense, it's no bother, dear. I think you're right that it's not broken, thank goodness, but it is a bit of a sprain. I've got just the thing. Half a mo," Molly said, scooting off in the direction of the kitchen before Ron or Hermione could say anything more.

Hermione took the opportunity to look around the lounge. She liked what she saw. The furniture was certainly well-worn but comfortable, every surface was immaculate, and all in all the room conveyed a feeling of warmth and light. Ron, who had been standing awkwardly nearby with his hands jammed into his pockets, watched her closely to see how she might react to the space.

"This is where you grew up?" Hermione said, smiling up at him.

He nodded. "Yep, this is it."

"With five brothers and a sister?"

"Mmm hmm."

Hermione looked around again, taking it all in with a pang of longing. _So this is what a magical house looks like._ She imagined a large, close-knit family sharing meals and playing with toys and reading and talking and bickering in this space. "It's so warm and welcoming," she said with a sad smile. "It's entirely different from the house I grew up in, which was so … formal." She couldn't imagine what it would be like to belong in such a place, to such a family. Then, returning her gaze to him, she added, "It's wonderful here. Honestly."

Ron couldn't say why it mattered so much to him that Hermione liked his home, but it did. It made him ridiculously happy, actually, and he had to work hard to keep from breaking out in a wide grin.

Just then Molly bustled back into the room followed by a woman whose beauty was so staggering Hermione had to catch her breath.

"Not to worry, dear," Molly said as she resumed her place next to Hermione's foot. "With Fleur's help here we'll have you on the mend in no time."

With the introductions made, Fleur and Molly set to work, applying numerous anti-inflammation spells on Hermione's ankle as well as a sizable ice pack, which Molly charmed to stay cool. One pain potion later and Hermione was already feeling much better. "It's remarkable how much the swelling has gone down already," Hermione said.

"You may feel better right now, but you should stay off of it as much as you can for the next 24 hours or so," Fleur cautioned.

"Perhaps you're right," Hermione said. "I can't thank you both enough, honestly."

"There's no need to thank us, dear," Molly said, straightening up. "Though perhaps Ron can thank me by coming out and helping me Levitate the dining room table and a few extra chairs into the back garden. You two are staying for dinner tonight and I won't take no for an answer."

Ron looked to Hermione questioningly and she nodded. "All right, Mum, I'm at your command," he said as he followed her toward the back door. "Oh, do you need anything before I go?" he asked Hermione.

"I think I'm in good hands right here," Hermione said with a nod to Fleur. "But thank you."

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he turned to rejoin his mother, and Fleur most definitely noticed it. Turning to Hermione, she Conjured a drinking glass, Aguamentied some water into it, and encouraged Hermione to drink. "You need to stay hydrated with that pain potion in your system," she said, a mirthful smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"Thank you," Hermione said before taking a sip.

Fleur seated herself on the sofa next to Hermione and leaned in conspiratorially. "I have heard much about you from Ginevra," she said at a near whisper. "It would seem you have quite enchanted our Ronald, ma chere."

Hermione blushed deeply and fidgeted with the hem of her blouse. Before she could formulate an answer, Fleur spoke again.

"I chose not to believe it at first, because Ronald, he has been single for so long. But now I see with my own eyes, and it is as plain as the day," she said. "Never have I seen him so over the moon. He is quite mad for you."

Hermione couldn't help herself — she knew she should have discouraged such speculation, but she was dying to know more, and thus found herself saying, "Do you think so?" before she had a chance to think better of it.

"Do I think so?" Fleur said, tossing her curtain of silver-blonde hair over her shoulder with a laugh. "The fact that you are here at The Burrow is proof enough. Ronald has dated many women, but never once has he brought one of them home to meet his family. Trust me, Molly is quite in awe. I have no doubt she is interrogating him about you even as we speak."

"Oh dear," Hermione breathed.

"You need not worry," Fleur replied quickly. "I have known Ronald's mother for many years, and I can say most definitely that she likes you already, I promise. No, it is more likely that she is lecturing Ronald about treating you properly, not the other way around."

Hermione laughed at this, and Fleur smiled — a bright, dazzling smile that once again took Hermione's breath away.

"So, you said you're married to Ron's brother Bill? Do you have children?"

"Yes, two: Victoire and Dominique. They are actually playing in the back garden right now. And I am expecting our third child — though I am not showing yet," said Fleur, who smiled and rubbed her tummy.

"Oh, congratulations!" Hermione beamed. "That's wonderful. How do you feel?"

"I am over the worst part," Fleur said, "and I am thankful. With Dominique, I had morning sickness for all nine months. Mon dieu."

They chatted amiably this way on topics ranging from France to Beauxbatons to spellwriting to Hermione's muggle upbringing to Weasley family lore for nearly half an hour, the sound of the children's shouts and squeals — and Molly's occasional admonishments — filtering into the room through the many open windows. Along the way, Hermione learned that Harry and Ginny were expected to dinner as well — that is, once they completed a wedding-related shopping trip in Ottery St. Catchpole, and that Bill and Mr. Weasley were due back soon from Shell Cottage, where the two of them were repairing the magical plumbing.

Fleur would have been amused to find that her surmise about Molly and Ron was largely accurate. As Victoire and Dominique ran about the lawn chasing Gnomes, Ron helped Molly Levitate tables and chairs into the garden — though he knew her request was merely a thinly veiled excuse to get him alone.

"She's as lovely as Ginny said," Molly murmured in an undertone as she strung fairy lights above the seating area with her wand.

"Wait, Ginny told you about Hermione?"

Molly smiled at him almost pityingly. "Honestly, Ronnie."

"Yeah, what was I thinking," Ron said, adjusting a table the muggle way. Straightening up, he ran a hand through his hair in mild vexation before leaving it to rest on the back of his neck. "So, erm, what did Ginny say?"

Abandoning her light-stringing for the moment, Molly gave him her full attention. "She said that Hermione is very smart — obviously, if she graduated Oxford — and that she's charming and kind and quite smitten with you."

Lowering his hand and stuffing it in his pocket, Ron looked down at the grass beneath his feet and smiled. "Well, she is all those things. I don't know about the smitten part, but …"

"But nothing," Molly scoffed, returning her attention to the fairy lights. "She's smitten — and, if I may be so bold, so are you."

Ron didn't answer this, instead stooping to pay unnecessarily close attention to tightening the screws on a wobbly table leg.

"And it's about time, Merlin knows," Molly continued, not seeing Ron rolling his eyes behind her. "The way you cycle through girls, Ronald Weasley — it's bordering on a scandal."

"Mum," Ron moaned.

Molly moved closer, the better to be heard without raising her voice, and stood above him with her hands on her hips. "Now, Ginny tells me Hermione doesn't know much of the magical world, poor dear, and that she's a very sweet and innocent thing," she said in a scolding undertone. "I would hate to see that girl get hurt. If this is just another one of your flings—"

"Mum!" Ron nearly shouted, drawing the attention of Victoire and Dominique, but only momentarily, as two Gnomes popped out of the cabbages and made a run for it right within the girls' line of sight.

Ron growled and rose to his feet. "Seriously, Mum," he said, struggling to keep his temper in check. "You don't have to worry about that. Not this time."

Studying his face, Molly said slowly, "You're sure?"

He took a deep breath before answering. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life," he said sincerely. "I'm in love with her, Mum."

Molly's mouth dropped open in astonishment before transforming into a broad smile. "Have you told her so?"

Ron shrugged and returned his gaze to the grass, gently kicking at a piece of sod that had been unearthed by a Gnome. "Not in so many words, no."

"Well do it, and soon," she said, suddenly misty-eyed, and before Ron knew it, his mother had grabbed his face in both hands and was squeezing his cheeks painfully. "Oh, my baby boy," she sobbed, yanking Ron's face down to her level and planting an enormous kiss on his forehead.

"Oi, Mum, my neck!"

Molly let go of him then and, taking a step back, Conjured a handkerchief and blew her nose mightily. "Oh, Ronnie … oh dear, oh dear," she sputtered, gathering herself and dabbing at her eyes. "Well then, we have so much to celebrate, don't we?"

Ron couldn't help but laugh at his mother's reaction. He was happy to see that his prediction to Hermione had been spot-on: His mother would love her because _he_ loved her, and he was quite certain that when his father returned from Shell Cottage, he would feel the same.

Stepping forward and wrapping an arm about his mother's shoulder, Ron kissed the top of her head and led her back into the kitchen.

They returned to the house just minutes after the arrival of Bill and Arthur, who had quite literally tumbled out of the fireplace, much to the astonishment of Hermione, who had never in her life seen such a thing. When Ron and Molly joined them in the lounge, the proper introductions had already been made, the concept of Flooing had been explained, and Arthur, fascinated, was seated next to Hermione and regaling her questions about how muggles would normally treat an injury such as a twisted ankle. He was amazed and a bit disappointed to find that the muggle treatment was essentially the same as the magical one: basically nothing.

Minutes later, Harry and Ginny flew into the front yard by broom, and as Victoire and Dominique ran into the house to greet them, Hermione found to her amusement that The Burrow could be just as bustling and noisy as she had imagined when she first arrived.

Before long, as the sun was beginning to set over the hills to the west, Molly called the group to dinner in the back garden. Bill, with Dominique balanced on his shoulders, helped his mother Levitate platter after platter of beef stew, potatoes, dilled carrots and peas and a giant green salad onto the table outside. Arthur meanwhile happily Levitated Hermione in her chair and seated her to his right at the table, something that pleased Ron at the time until he realized it meant, as the ten of them settled down to eat, that he was relegated to the far end of the table away from Hermione. It was some consolation that he got to sit next to Dominique, his favorite niece, and he spent much of the meal entertaining her by Conjuring and Vanishing a succession of sparkly toy Pixies to hover just above her plate — first green, then blue, then red, then pink and back again. He stole occasional glances in Hermione's direction, and he was happy to see that she was deep in conversation with Mr. Weasley on her left and Harry on her right. From the snatches of banter he was able to pick up, it would seem they were explaining to his father the details of muggle dentistry, though his heart warmed as Hermione sent an occasional smile in his direction.

Fleur, seated on Dominique's other side, caught one of these quiet exchanges and, giving Ron a knowing grin over Dominique's head, raised her glass and clinked it against Ron's. "She is quite special, no?" Fleur whispered, leaning in over Dominique.

"You think she's too good for me, eh?" Ron whispered back through a half grin.

Fleur laughed. "Mais non," she said as she wiped a blob of gravy from Dominique's fist with her napkin. "The connection — le lien — it is impossible to miss," she added after casting a quick glance around the table and assuring herself that no one was listening.

Ron shook his head, a wistful smile on his face, and leaned closer. "Feels like we've known each other all our lives."

"You felt it when you met, then — le coup de tonnerre, how you say — the thunderbolt?"

Ron was astonished to realize that this was indeed what he felt, and the look on his face was all the answer Fleur needed.

"It is as I thought," she whispered through a grin. "It is the old magic — âmes soeurs."

Ron's forehead furrowed in confusion. "Huh?"

Fleur huffed and wiped Dominique's hand again, rolling her eyes. "You Englishmen, impossible," she muttered. "Con comme un balai, always logic and manners, never emotion. Maddening!"

"What are you on about?" Ron said, scanning the group and reassuring himself that no one was listening.

"Hogwarts — all theory and process. But elemental magic? To a British wizard it is hardly worth considering."

"Well, Dumbledore mentioned it now and then."

"Mentioned it!" Fleur scoffed. "Elemental magic is, what is the word, fondé — fundamental — there is no point studying anything until you learn this."

Noticing that Dominique was getting antsy, Ron Conjured another set of toy Pixies before turning his attention back to Fleur. "So, what do you mean by âmes soeurs, anyway?"

Feeling a bit embarrassed for her outburst, Fleur looked back at Ron and, noting his sincere expression, took pity on him. "An aspect of elemental magic," she explained more calmly, a small smile curling her lips. Leaning closer, she whispered, "soul mates."

Ron straightened up, his thunderstruck expression causing Fleur to chuckle softly. "Think about it," she said, "and do some reading. You will see that I am right."

After dinner and a dessert of treacle tarts and apple pie, Hermione was vexed to find that she could do nothing to help tidy up, though Molly insisted she stay seated and keep her foot immobile. At Hermione's request, Arthur Levitated her into the kitchen so at least she could sit and chat with Molly, Bill and Ginny as they set the dishes to wash themselves — a fascinating process that Hermione had never seen before. Fleur, meanwhile, busied herself with packing up the children's things as Harry and Ron assisted Arthur with Levitating the tables and chairs back inside. When they were finished, Arthur rejoined the group in the kitchen, but Harry and Ron hung back in the garden and found themselves strolling down to the pond, which sparkled ahead of them in the light of the moon.

"Gin finally made her decision about tuxedos today?" Ron asked.

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, though I did mention the possibility of elopement one more time while I was waiting for her to make up her mind."

"I'm guessing that didn't fly."

"You know your sister very well."

They strolled on in comfortable silence for a few moments until Harry spoke again.

"So, you and Hermione."

Ron stuffed his hands into his pockets and kicked a rock in his path. "Me and Hermione."

"Seems serious."

Shrugging, Ron replied simply, "It is."

"Wow."

Ron looked up at the starry night sky in mild frustration. "Everybody seems so amazed. Have I been that much of a bounder for all these years?"

"Well, you've certainly never been interested in anyone for more than a few dates," Harry said.

"Yeah, I guess that's true. This is different, though."

"I can see that. Everybody can, actually," Harry said, adding after a few moments at a lower tone, "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks, mate."

They reached the water's edge then and Ron bent down to pick up a few rocks, which he skipped across the surface of the pond, one at a time.

"This is going to sound weird," Harry continued as he stood back, watching Ron toss stones. "When I talk to her, it seems like she's always been one of us. Know what I mean?"

Ron straightened up and turned to nod at Harry. "I should be unnerved by it, but I'm not," he said, tossing a stone lightly in his hand. "I keep checking to be sure I'm not, you know, getting ahead of myself because we've only known each other a few weeks. But then, when I'm with her, that doesn't really seem all that important."

Ron stooped to pick up another handful of stones and started skipping them again. After a few minutes, Harry laughed. "Well, thank Merlin you feel this way about Hermione and not Eugenie Fandino."

"Oi, that was a blind date — Ginny fixed us up, though Merlin only knows why."

"She certainly fancied you."

"Yeah, well, she fancied a lot of things — including Warlock's Ale, Daydream Potion benders and cocaine, as I recall."

"True."

After a few moments of contemplation, Harry blurted out a laugh despite himself. "And who could forget Lavinia Dunder-Cholmondeley?" he sputtered, chortling despite his best efforts to keep himself under control.

"That was Viscountess Dunder-Cholmondeley to you," Ron answered, his voice betraying a hint of amusement.

"She had horsey teeth," Harry said.

"I'll have you know she was something like 77th in line to the throne."

"Yeah, right — so if a meteor had wiped out the entire royal family, you might have had a chance to be Prince Consort Ronald, then."

"Something like that, yeah," Ron answered, laughing despite his mild annoyance at Harry's needling.

Throwing the last of his rocks, Ron turned back to Harry and said, "Perhaps we'd better head back up to the house and rescue Hermione from Dad."

"Yeah, poor thing. She spent most of dinner describing root canals in painstaking detail."

"Root what?"

"Nevermind."

Back at the house, Harry and Ron found that the gathering had moved to the lounge, though Bill, Fleur and the children were just preparing to Floo back to Shell Cottage. After saying their farewells, Molly settled down on the sofa next to Hermione and insisted that she stay for the night.

"Oh, you're very kind, Mrs. Weasley, but I wouldn't want to impose," Hermione said as Ron seated himself on the armrest next to her.

"Nonsense, dear, it would be no trouble at all," Molly answered. "Besides, the only reasonable way to get you home tonight would be by Side-Alonging — you're not on the Floo Network, are you? — and neither would be very comfortable with your ankle in that state."

"You're probably right," Hermione answered meekly. "Well, thank you."

"Grand," said Arthur as he stood and stretched. "This means you can tell me more about muggle dentists over breakfast, Hermione," he added with a wink. "Sweet dreams, everyone," Arthur added as he planted a kiss on Ginny's forehead and shuffled off toward the stairway. "Come along, Molly," he said kindly, and Mrs. Weasley, who was clearly eager to supervise the situation a bit longer, gave one more reluctant scan of the room before she said, "Good night, dears — be good," and followed Mr. Weasley up the stairs.

Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione chatted about wedding plans for a few minutes in the lounge before Ginny started yawning and stretching. "It's time for us to go, love," she said to Harry, and he nodded his agreement.

"Let's get Hermione sorted, then," Ron said, and Ginny agreed. Once again ignoring her protests, Ron gathered Hermione in his arms and carried her up the stairs to Ginny's room, with Ginny following close behind, so Hermione could find a nightgown and a change of clothes for the morning among Ginny's old things. Sitting outside the door on the stairwell, Ron wished he'd had a pair of Extendable Ears, for the girls were taking their time and quite enjoying themselves, judging by the bursts of laughter that rang forth every now and then. Eventually the door opened and Ginny slipped out, giving Ron a little kick to the shin as she sidled past him and descended back to the lounge to rejoin Harry and Floo back to Grimmauld Place.

"Hey," Ron called to Hermione as he climbed back to his feet, straightening up to find her standing in the doorway in a pink flannel nightgown and a matching robe. He reckoned he shouldn't have found the sight of her so alluring, given that she was wearing his sister's clothes, but he shook that thought off and simply stood dumbfounded for a few heartbeats, for she was indeed lovely to behold there in the lantern light. "You, are you uh," he said, kicking himself for being so nonsensical. "Ready for bed?"

"Almost. Is the loo up that way?" she asked, pointing toward the next landing above them.

"Oh — yeah," he said. "Hang on.'' He scooped her up again and carried her up the stairs, depositing her in the bathroom doorway and pointing out a box of fresh toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet before seating himself on the stairs again until she was through with her ablutions.

When she emerged from the loo, he whispered, "Would you mind sitting here and waiting for me for a minute?" and she quickly nodded. "Be right back," he said, and he climbed the stairs two at a time to his old bedroom at the very top of the stairwell. He knew he had a few old sets of pyjamas there, and he quickly slipped on a pair of flannel trousers and a clean though threadbare old Chudley Cannons T-shirt. Stopping into the loo on the top floor, he freshened up quickly and then tumbled back down the stairs to where Hermione sat in the semi-darkness.

"Are you sleepy?" he asked.

She paused to consider. "Not just yet. Are you?"

He shook his head. "Want to go back to the lounge for a bit?"

"Sure."

With that, Ron again gathered Hermione up in his arms and carried her down the stairs. "You know, you really don't need to lug me about everywhere," she said smilingly. "My ankle is feeling much better."

"Maybe I enjoy lugging you about," Ron said as he deposited her on the sofa by the front window.

"Well then," she said looking up at him, "perhaps I should confess that I don't mind terribly being lugged about."

"I appreciate your honesty," he said, then gestured toward the kitchen. "Need anything?"

She smiled and, looking down at the sofa cushion next to her, she said, "Nothing that can be found in the kitchen," before giving the cushion a gentle pat.

This was all the invitation Ron needed, and he quickly settled onto the sofa next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, sighing deeply when she curled herself up next to him and draped her legs across his lap.

"I know this wasn't exactly how you might have expected to spend this evening, but …" he said as he twisted a lock of her hair around his finger.

"Nonsense," she answered softly. "I had a lovely time. Your family are all so friendly and sweet."

"And this is only a fraction of them. You haven't met Charlie yet. Or Percy. Or Percy's wife Audrey and their kids. Or George's wife Angie and their kid."

Hermione laughed. "I'm going to need a scorecard to keep them all straight."

"Don't worry, I'll make you a diagram and quiz you on who's who," he said with a laugh before adding in a more sober tone: "It might come in handy if you come to … actually, I was thinking, if you'd like to … that is, if you're free, though it's not for a few months yet …"

With her hands folded in her lap, Hermione sat trying to mask her amusement as Ron gathered himself to ask whatever it was he as about to ask. After a few more verbal stumbles, he finally mentally shook himself and said what he'd meant to say plainly. "I'd be honored if you would come to Harry and Ginny's wedding with me as my date."

Hermione's cheeks heated up instantly as she pictured what it would be like to attend such an enormous family event with him — and as she contemplated all the assumptions that people would make about their own status if she did. And yet, she found that she would like nothing better than to be there with him when his best friend and his only sister tied the knot. It was an honor to be asked, and she felt it keenly. "I'd love to," she said softly after a moment. "Thank you." She kissed him lightly before leaning her forehead against his, then asked, "When is it?"

"The second Saturday in September," Ron answered as he raised a hand to her cheek and brushed it lightly with the back of his finger.

"And how many Weasleys will be there?" she asked, drawing a bark of a laugh from Ron.

"Approximately 574," he replied.

"Oh dear. You'd better hurry and make that diagram."

Settling into the space between Ron's arm and his chest, Hermione rested her cheek on his bicep and absent-mindedly traced the outline of the insignia on his shirt — "C - H - U - D - L - E - Y" — while he tightened his grip on her shoulder. Soon, however, he reached for her hand and meshed his fingers with hers. They sat that way, once again fascinated by the sight of their fingers twining and untwining atop Ron's chest, until Ron let go of her hand and, with the crook of his finger, tilted her chin upward. Slanting his lips over hers, he wordlessly gave her one tender kiss and then another, and they stayed that way — gently and quietly enjoying the feel of one another's lips and pondering the happy accidents that caused their paths to cross — until slumber claimed them both.


	20. Chapter 20

_**A/N**_ _— One of the most interesting aspects of this project has been pondering the relationship dynamics between Hermione and Ron, both as we know them from canon and as they are portrayed here in this story. In canon, Hermione's sense of self-worth is very much tied up in her undeniably impressive grasp of all aspects of magic and magical theory. As they grew up side-by-side at Hogwarts, her expertise was sometimes a source of friction between Hermione and Ron, and it became an interesting aspect of their romantic/sexual dynamic as well. A Hermione who is completely out of touch with her magic and ignorant of most magical theory is a very different Hermione indeed. The Hermione in this story, therefore, is needier than the Hermione we know from canon. And I'm finding that this Hermione brings out a different side of Ron — a more nurturing, knightly side. He wants to help her. He wants to teach her. He wants to protect her._

 _As always, these characters write themselves and continue to show me fascinating new possibilities. I hope you're enjoying the story so far. Share your constructive feedback — and please share the story with your Romione-loving friends._

 _Holly._

oooOOOooo

 **Chapter 20**

"John, I'm terribly, terribly sorry. There's been a dreadful misunderstanding, and it would seem you've been put in the middle of it," Hermione said with an edge in her voice as she shot an angry scowl at her mother.

"No worries, Hermione. I understand," said John Foley, Hermione's childhood next-door neighbor who most certainly _didn't_ understand, but who was too uncomfortable with the row unfolding before his very eyes to say anything else.

"Hermione!" Eleanor Granger said through clenched teeth. "I invited John here. He is my guest, not yours." Then she added pleadingly in John's direction, "Besides, he's a doctor."

Hermione gruffly folded her arms over her chest. "So?"

"So, you're obviously hurt," Eleanor said while glaring at Ron momentarily. "Perhaps John should examine you."

Hermione rolled her eyes at this. "Absolutely not, Mother. I'm perfectly fine and no examinations are necessary." With this, Hermione stepped toward the front hallway of the house as purposefully as she could manage on a still-slightly-injured ankle. John, taking his cue, followed, realizing he and Hermione were on the same page about at least one thing — he needed to make himself scarce. As Hermione opened the door for him, however, she grasped his arm and said sincerely, "I truly am sorry."

He smiled down at her kindly and nodded. It occurred to Hermione that under different circumstances, her mother's efforts to light a fire between her and John Foley might have paid off. He was a very good-looking man, after all — tall and brawny, with sandy, wavy hair and pale green eyes. As Hermione watched him walk down the front stairs and head for home, she laughed to herself over one thought: John Foley couldn't help it if he wasn't Ronald Weasley.

Her amusement didn't last long, however. There was still her mother to contend with.

Limping back angrily into the sitting room, she found Eleanor and her father Hugh standing in awkward silence across from Ron, whose ears had fired up to a deep crimson over the course of this entire humiliating episode.

"Mother, I cannot _believe_ you would do something like that to a perfectly nice man like John Foley," Hermione said.

"Do what, darling? I merely told him that you would be coming by today and suggested he should pop 'round. I thought that if the two of you were free, perhaps he could take you out to lunch."

"Mother, I've told you over and over and over again that I'm not interested in John Foley, and yet you persist in trying to throw us together. And how incredibly awkward it must have been for him to find me arriving here with Ron."

"Well, sweetheart, how was I to know you were bringing — _him_ ," Eleanor said, shooting a cool, appraising look at Ron.

Her mother had a point. Hermione certainly had given her parents no warning that Ron would be with her today. Yes, she'd told her mother during their last phone conversation that she'd become interested in one of Dean's friends — one of _those_ friends — but she had purposely avoided her mother's questions about whether it was serious. Come to think of it, that was probably why her mother had tried playing the John Foley card one more time — to try to counter Hermione's growing interest in the magical world and a certain man within it.

The truth was, Hermione had no intention of introducing Ron to her parents in this way. It was, unfortunately, a necessary consequence of her hurting her ankle the day before. In order to keep her Sunday lunch date with her parents, it would be necessary to travel from Ottery St. Catchpole to Sevenoaks by magical means. With her sore ankle, Side-Alonging was still right out and Flooing wasn't possible. Flying by broom would take hours, which was why Ron opted to introduce Hermione to the particular perils and pleasures of the Knight Bus that morning, though he insisted on riding along with her and seeing her to her parents' door. And that's when John Foley arrived … and that's when Eleanor opened the door to greet him … and that's when, as Ron would say, all Hades broke loose.

Hermione took a deep breath. "Mum, please, perhaps we should try this again from the beginning and see if we can get this right," she said in as patient a tone as she could muster. "Mum, Dad, this is Ronald Weasley. Ron, these are my parents, Hugh and Eleanor Granger."

Ron extended a hand to Hugh, who shook it firmly with both hands and gave what appeared to Ron to be a genuine smile.

"Good to meet you, Ron," said Hugh.

"I'm glad to meet you, sir, and Mrs. Granger as well," Ron said with a short nod to Eleanor. "Hermione has told me a lot about you," he added despite the uncomfortable realization that much of what she'd told him had been, well, not terribly positive. He reminded himself, however, that Hermione loved her parents and that she'd assured him that they most definitely loved her — and Hugh's obvious attempt to lighten the mood and make Ron feel as welcome as possible under the circumstances did much to confirm Hermione's words.

"Why don't you come in and sit down, Ron," Hugh said, gesturing to the armchair facing the settee while flashing an impatient look at Eleanor, who was standing behind the opposite armchair and digging her fingers into it. This was Eleanor's cue to offer tea or some other refreshment, of course, but she stood mute and rigid for a few beats too long before Hermione stepped in to fill the gap.

"I'll go put the kettle on for tea," Hermione said with a semblance of brightness, leaving Ron sitting across from Hugh and wondering if and when Eleanor would join them.

After a silence that felt like an hour but was actually only a few seconds, Hugh said, "We should thank you for seeing Hermione here. It looks like she's on the mend."

Ron leaned forward, mentally thanking Hugh for thinking of something to say. "Yes, she took a bit of a spill yesterday, but I believe it was only a mild sprain," Ron said.

"How did it happen?" Hugh asked casually.

"Erm, well, I've been giving Hermione lessons, you see — things she might have learnt at Hogwarts had she been a student there — and she's doing brilliantly. She just had a bit of a mishap with this particular lesson."

Hugh stole a sidelong look at Eleanor before asking in a tone that suggested he was treading very lightly, "And what, may I ask, was this particular lesson in?"

"Flying," Ron said simply, drawing a short, gutteral gasp from Eleanor, whose knuckles were turning white, she was gripping the armchair so hard.

"I see," said Hugh distractedly. "Well then."

"Yes, well, as I'm sure you can imagine, Hermione's a very quick study and was doing a smashing job. Just made a dog's dinner of a landing, that's all," he said with a small laugh, but quickly sobered up. "Hopefully she'll be all healed up by the time she goes back to work on Tuesday."

"Tuesday?" Hugh said.

"Yes, Tuesday, Dad," Hermione cut in as she re-entered the room carrying a tea tray and set it on the coffee table before seating herself next to her father. "The students have an off day tomorrow to study for exams, so I get to enjoy a three-day weekend." Looking up at her mother, she added, "Have a seat, Mum. I'll pour."

Apparently seeing no option but to sit, Eleanor sank into the armchair opposite Ron, her back erect and feet crossed tightly at the ankles, and watched Hermione serve tea and biscuits.

"So, is it a workday for you tomorrow, Ron?" Hugh asked in an attempt to keep the conversation going, though his question caught Ron in mid-sip.

"Yes, sir," he answered after a moment. "I recently got a promotion which put an end to weekend duty, I'm happy to say, so I mostly work Monday through Friday now."

"Oh, well, bully for you," Hugh said. "What do you do then, Ron?"

"I'm an Auror, sir," Ron said and, reading the confused look on Hugh's face, he continued, "that is, I work as a special investigator for the Ministry of Magic. In the muggle world, I suppose it would be a bit like being part of MI-5. The Auror Corps has a police force that does basic law enforcement, but I'm not part of that. I do detective work, mostly."

"It's a great honor," Hermione added with a shy smile in Ron's direction. "The British Auror Corps is recognized globally as one of the very best, and the Academy typically only graduates five recruits a year, and Ron has risen to the rank of captain."

Ron couldn't help but grin at her.

"I've been reading up," she said, directing her gaze back to her teacup.

The conversation continued thus, a halting, uneasy affair in which three participants tried their level best to discover new and relatively non-controversial topics — and one, Eleanor, did her best to keep quiet on the theory that if one cannot say anything nice, one should not say anything at all.

Her resolve failed her, however, when the subject of Hogwarts came up yet again, though only in passing.

"Hogwarts, a school for _magic_ ," she said with a sarcastic edge.

"Yes," Ron replied, placing his teacup on the coffee table in front of him.

"And what do they teach there, pray? Pulling rabbits out of hats? Card tricks?"

"Mum," Hermione pleaded.

"No, no, do tell me," Eleanor replied, turning toward Ron and giving him a tight smile. "I'm quite curious."

Ron cleared his throat. "Ma'am, I'm happy to tell you anything you care to know, if you—"

"Mum," Hermione interrupted, "Hogwarts has existed for hundreds of years. It's one of the most prestigious institutions of magical learning in the world."

Eleanor stirred her tea, which she hadn't tasted and had allowed to go cold. "One would think Sevenoaks School and Oxford University weren't good enough for some people," she said quietly.

"That's enough, Eleanor," Hugh said, much to Ron's relief. "I'm sorry, Ron."

"Don't apologize on my account," Eleanor said briskly before turning to Ron and saying, "If I made you uncomfortable, Ron, I do regret it."

Ron didn't take much solace in this, but he smiled and nodded anyway. Looking to Hermione, he could see she was clearly mortified over her mother's behavior — and he also sensed that it might be best if he allowed her to have some private time with her parents. They clearly had a lot to discuss.

"Well," Ron said, sitting up a little straighter. "I shouldn't impose anymore on your family time, should I."

For one anxious moment, Hermione feared he was looking to get away not just then but for good — but the gentle smile he sent her way did much to calm her fears. She rose as he did and stepped toward him. "I'll see you out," she said quietly, looking up and studying his face nervously.

"Actually, kitten, I will see Ron out if you don't mind," Hugh said, standing as well.

"Oh. Well. All right then," Hermione said. "Thank you for the lessons, Ron, and thanks for seeing me back to Sevenoaks." She rose on her tiptoes then and kissed him on the cheek.

Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said, "I'll send Pigwidgeon to your flat as soon as I get home. You use him to reach me whenever you like, all right?"

She nodded and he placed a kiss on her forehead, ignoring the small gasp emanating from Eleanor. Then, bidding goodbye to Eleanor with a nod, he joined Hugh in the hallway.

To Ron's surprise, Hugh followed him out the door and closed it behind them, gesturing toward the gate at the far end of the front garden and striding slowly beside Ron with his hands sunk deep in his pockets.

"Ron, I truly must apologize for my wife's behavior just now," Hugh said as they walked. "She's not always like this, believe me, but the subject of magic, Hogwarts, wizards — well, she doesn't react well to it." Letting out a humorless laugh, he added, "as you can see."

"I know it's none of my business, Mr. Granger, but I hope you know how much this distrust of the magical world hurts Hermione," Ron said. "I'm being presumptuous by saying so, but—"

"No buts, Ron, you're right," Hugh said. "For what it's worth, it's been many years since I decided Eleanor and I made a mistake keeping Hermione from Hogwarts. What's done can't be undone, unfortunately, but if I had it to do over again, I'd handle that decision very differently."

By this time, they'd reached the front gate. Ron looked down and nudged the perfectly trimmed lawn next to the immaculately edged brick sidewalk with his shoe. Hermione wasn't kidding about how formal her parents' home was. Where his mother's garden was wild and soft around the edges, Hermione's parents' place was surrounded by a manicured tableau encased within an imposing wrought-iron fence. Where Ron's parents' house was rambling and somewhat tumbledown, Hermione's parents' place could be described as very nearly a mansion — in fact, when he'd first laid eyes on the edifice, Ron couldn't believe that only two people lived in it. And yet, Hermione's father … he seemed remarkably down-to-Earth. And it was clear to Ron that he was wrestling with very deep emotions, struggling to understand and be understood.

"Have you told Hermione how you feel about that decision, Mr. Granger?"

"No I haven't, but perhaps very soon I should. First, however … well …" Hugh exhaled a deep breath. "Oh bugger," he breathed, drawing a small laugh from Ron. "I'm sorry to trouble you with this, Ron, but you're the only magical person I know — other than Hermione, that is."

"Anything, sir."

Hugh paused and ran his fingers through his hair, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "When Albus Dumbledore came to see us, back when Hermione was 11, we asked him of course how in blazes he came to know about us, about Hermione."

"Mmm hmm."

"He told us the Ministry keeps a registry of every magical child born."

Ron laughed. "Yep, that's what the Ministry's best at: Keeping records."

"Quite. And you are an investigator at the Ministry, yes?"

Ron nodded.

"Would you … would you be able to check Ministry records for a certain name?"

Ron hesitated. He had a high security clearance — so high that there were few things in the Ministry archives that he couldn't access. Even so, he'd have to bend a few rules to the point of breaking in order to waltz into the Records Department and look up random names. The hopeful look on Hugh's face, however, persuaded him to shrug that concern off.

"I'd be happy to help if I can, sir."

Hugh breathed a sigh of relief, then looked back at the house nervously before leaning in a bit more closely to Ron. "The name I'm interested in is Farley. Margaret Farley. Does the name Farley mean anything to you?"

Ron thought hard. Farley. _Farley_. No … there may have been a Farley at Hogwarts, but no names or faces were coming to mind. Hufflepuff, maybe? He was drawing a blank. "I really couldn't say, sir. Is this Margaret Farley a friend? A relative?"

Hugh looked over his shoulder again momentarily and shook his head. "I'm only going on a hunch, Ron, but if I'm right, it might explain much about my wife's attitude toward magic," he said. "It's probably best if I don't say more unless and until you can find a Margaret Farley in your archives. If my guess is right, she was born in the early part of the century, in Cambridge."

This was certainly a strange request, but Ron was eager to know more — especially if it could help Hermione mend fences with her mother.

"I'll look into it the first chance I get, sir."

"Thank you, Ron. I'm sorry to be so cloak-and-dagger about it, but I promise to enlighten you when we know more." Then, reaching for his wallet, he pulled out a business card and gave it to Ron. "It's probably best to ring me up at the office. Eleanor is semi-retired now, so if you call me at the dental practice, you're less likely to stir up questions."

Pocketing the card, Ron reached for Hugh's hand and gave it a firm shake. As he turned to open the gate, however, Hugh spoke again.

"Ron—"

Still holding the gate open in his hand, Ron turned to see that Hugh had sunk his hands back into his pockets and was wearing a contrite expression.

"You care for my daughter, don't you," Hugh said.

"Very much," Ron replied without hesitation. "We haven't known each other for very long but — yes."

"I can tell she cares for you." Hearing this from Hermione's father sent a shiver of warmth through Ron, despite how odd and awkward the visit had been. "Don't let today's unpleasantness keep you away. Eleanor will come around, and … and I think it would mean a lot to Hermione if we all kept trying."

Ron smiled and nodded resolutely. "Good night, sir," he said, and turned to stroll back to stroll to a park he spotted nearby, where he knew he could Disapparate without much fear of detection.

Hours later, Ron was stretched out on his bed at Vine Cottage. He'd gone home, his head swimming from all that he'd seen and heard at the Grangers', and distracted himself by taking a run, then showering, making dinner and finally listening to a Cannons game on the wireless while flipping through the latest issue of Quidditch Week. He found that the magazine couldn't keep his mind from roving over the highs and lows of the day, however — and though he was intrigued by Hugh's mysterious request and troubled by Eleanor's hostility, he found his thoughts more pleasantly occupied with memories of waking up with Hermione in his arms that morning at The Burrow.

They hadn't intended to fall asleep on the sofa. It just happened. And at some point in the night they must have shifted their positions because, by the time they were awakened to the sound of his mother prattling about the kitchen making breakfast, they were stretched out next to each other — Ron on his back, Hermione clinging tightly to his side. He woke before Hermione did, and it occurred to him that the sight of her waking up — and of the most intense blush overtaking her cheeks as she realized where she was and just who had undoubtedly seen them snoozing together — would go down in his own mental history as one of the most wonderful things he'd ever seen.

With such notions dancing through his head, he had stretched out on his bed, barely paying attention to the wireless, when Pig flew in the master bedroom window, hooting and flapping his wings furiously.

"Calm down, brainless, and get over here," Ron said, capturing the little owl in his hand and untying the note tied to his leg.

 _Dear Ron,_

 _I'm home now. Please, please come._

 _Hermione._

Minutes later, Ron landed in the alleyway behind Hermione's flat, his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn't even bothered to change out of his pyjamas, stopping only long enough to pull on socks and a pair of trainers. Alomahora-ing himself into the front hallway and bounding up the stairs two at a time, he waved his wand at her apartment door and, nearly out of breath, he burst into the lounge to find Hermione standing by the hearth, her hands clutched together nervously, her eyes reddened from crying.

A heartbeat later she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle and burying her face in his chest. In an instant, he enfolded her in his arms and was gently shooshing her, whispering, "I'm here now. It's OK," into her hair. She was shaking from the effort it took to hold her tears in. When he said, "I'm here now, love," however, the dam burst and the tears flowed forth.

Encircling her shoulders with his arm, he led her to the sofa and set her down, then sat down next to her and pulled her close.

"I'm so sorry," she sputtered between sobs, her face pressed against his neck. "I'm so, so sorry. I seem to be nothing but trouble for you."

Ron tipped his head to try to see her face but she kept her cheek pressed beneath his chin. "What are you on about?" he said. "That's nonsense."

She sniffled, trying again to control her tears, but to no avail. "It's just, you've been so wonderful," she continued, her voice creaking with strain. "Magic lessons, a new wand … and I can do so little in return. And on top of all that, my mother …"

She dissolved into sobs again at that thought, and all Ron could do was pull her closer and attempt to soothe her again.

"Did something happen after I left today? I'm sorry — maybe I shouldn't have gone."

"No," Hermione said, her voice still hoarse. "It was for the best — there was so much I had to hash out with them." Ron Conjured her a handkerchief, and she dabbed her eyes with it before continuing.

"Yeah," he said. "Maybe if you'd had more of a chance to prepare them for … well … _me_ , it wouldn't have been so bad."

"Perhaps, but …" Hermione said with a shake of her head, positioning herself so she was facing him more directly. "No. Actually, no. My mother is so dead-set against me having anything to do with the magical world, I quite honestly doubt there is much I could have done to prepare her for the idea that … that …"

"That you're dating a wizard?" he supplied.

Hermione sniffled and nodded, but somehow found a way to smile through her tears. "We're dating, aren't we?"

Ron chuckled softly. "I suppose we are."

She sniffled again and then rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't believe what she accused me of — what she accused _you_ of."

Ron raised an eyebrow to indicate he was listening, and she took a shuddering breath. "It got a bit heated there after my father returned to the house," she said shakily. "Please understand, my parents are not the type to argue. Not that they always agree on everything, mind — they just tend to keep their feelings very much on a subterranean level, if you know what I mean."

Ron knew precisely what she meant. Everything about Mrs. Granger seemed to suggest she was all about keeping things in order — as if allowing one blade of grass to grow a tad higher than its neighbors or one salad fork to be set askew on the dining table would cause the Earth to go spinning off its axis. What fascinated Ron was that Mr. Granger put off a very different vibe — like Hermione, his intelligence radiated off of him, and he had a more casual air, as if the trappings of his rather obvious wealth meant little to him. Despite the discomfort of the day, Ron couldn't help liking Hugh Granger very much.

"Well, when Daddy returned, he was pretty hacked off with Mum, and insisted that she owed you an apology for being so unspeakably rude — and I, of course, agreed. And Mum — again, I have to emphasize that she's normally lovely, it's just magic makes her so uptight — anyway, she became very angry and said something things about me, about you — even about my father — that were just, well … ugh."

She paused to rather distractedly finger the sleeve of the navy blue Auror Corps jersey he was wearing. She wasn't sure she should tell Ron all that had been said. It was rather ugly. But then, she so wanted to open up to him. She'd never had anyone to share such things with. Though Dean was a friend who knew her magical secret, he wasn't the type of friend she could confide in about matters relating to her family. Ron's voice penetrated her thoughts, however, and she decided in that moment to trust him.

"You don't have to tell me," he said softly, "but if you want to tell me, I'm listening."

She smiled tearily and shrugged, looking up to the ceiling for a moment as she reached for the right words. "Well, she accused my father and me of ganging up on her — which she has done before when we've argued about magic. She said something to Dad about how he's never understood the danger the way she does — which didn't entirely make sense to me — but I didn't have much time to sort it out because she had plenty to say about me as well."

"Shit."

"Exactly," Hermione said with a small laugh. Ron took her hand in his and stroked it gently, giving her the encouragement she needed to continue. "She said my problem is that I've never given any non-magical man a chance — that if I would just find a man, get married, have a family, I'd forget all about all this magical nonsense." She rolled her eyes at that and wiped her nose with her handkerchief, and Ron breathed out a sigh of frustration. "It gets worse," she continued. "She said you _obviously_ put some sort of spell on me, that you were just interested in sleeping with me, and that she couldn't believe I'd trust someone I barely knew like this — especially a magical person."

"For fuck's sake — really?"

"Really."

They sat in silence for a few moments as Hermione's mother's words sunk in. Ron tried mightily to summon his Auror training in order to rein in his fury, though it was a struggle. As his intellect slowly overtook his instinct, however, it occurred to Ron that there were many interesting clues embedded in Hermione's tale: Eleanor Granger had something to hide, and he was going to find out what it was — for Hermione's sake.

"So," Hermione said softly, and Ron realized he'd been lost in his own thoughts for a few moments too long. He returned his gaze to hers to find that she was looking up at him timidly, biting her lower lip. When she saw she had his attention once again, she continued. "I told my Mum there's no one on Earth I trust more than you. For 25 years, I've felt alone, not really belonging in the muggle world, certainly not belonging in the magical world," she said, her voice becoming creaky once again as tears pooled in her eyes. "I've been so lost, Ron … and you … you're the only one … who accepts me completely as I am … magic and all. Not even my parents…"

She couldn't complete the thought, so overwhelmed was she by emotion, and as she collapsed into tears once again, Ron reached for her and pulled her tight against his chest. "Shh," Ron whispered. "It's all right."

She pressed her tear-stained cheek against his and pulled herself closer to him, her little frame racked with sobs.

"Come on, now," Ron said, pulling her tighter. "Your parents love you, Hermione, I know they do."

She muttered something unintelligible, and he pressed on. "You're quite lovable, you know," he said. "Your parents love you. Dean loves you. My family just met you but they all love you, I know."

She sniffled and, pulling her cheek away from his, looked up at him questioningly. With one arm still wrapped tightly around her shoulders, he used his free hand to trace the tracks of her tears across her flaming cheeks. She hiccuped and shuddered, feeling herself calming under his soothing touch. "I pictured telling you this at a different time and a different place — maybe on a picnic on my favorite beach at the Isle of Skye, or maybe on a stroll through Paris, or maybe punting on the Cherwell in Oxford — and I pictured saying it much, much later, but I guess there's no time like the present, here with your eyes all red and your nose running." She laughed and wiped her nose with her handkerchief, then looked back up at him expectantly.

Taking her cheek more firmly in his palm, Ron traced her lips with his thumb and looked her over, studying every curve of her face. His heart pounded, reminding him that he needed to speak.

"I love you, Hermione Granger. I love you with all my heart."

Despite everything, she hadn't quite been expecting him to say this, and his simple and quiet declaration set off a fluttering in her chest. She had to play it over in her mind once and then twice to be sure she'd truly heard it and hadn't merely imagined it. No — she'd heard right. He loved her, and the realization made her heart soar. She sniffled as a smile slowly warmed her face.

"I love _you_ , Ronald Weasley. I love you so very, very dearly."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Afterhours in the Ministry Archives, Ron sat in the light of a single desk lamp, trying his best to concentrate. He rubbed his eyes. It had been a busy day. He'd very nearly been late for his first meeting of the day — the regular 10 o'clock briefing — and he spent most of the rest of the day bringing Harry's team up to speed on the latest details of the smuggling case. On top of that, he'd somehow found time to make a stop at the Muggle Services office to request that a telephone be installed at Vine Cottage — a bit of business that took more paperwork than he anticipated — and over lunch he dropped into the Ministry Library to check out a couple of books on elemental magic. Afterward, he took a moment to Owl an acquaintance, Winks Tidley, about Hermione; Ron was beginning to believe that if Hermione was ever going to realize her full magical potential, she'd need more intensive training than he could give, and he hoped Winks might be of service. By the time he signed off for the day and made it down to the Ministry Archives, he was knackered, but he was also so eager to start searching down Hugh Granger's query that he willed himself to find the energy.

Still, the Archives were silent at this hour — the staff had long ago gone home — and try as he might to stay focused on the task at hand, his mind kept returning to memories of the night before. Hermione had been so sweet, so soft, so warm, and it had taken every bit of self-control he could muster to keep from letting himself make passionate love to her right there on the sofa in her lounge. Not that she hadn't been willing — far from it — but he knew it had been an emotional day for her. Hardly the time to make a move as potentially life-changing as giving up one's virginity. But oh … how tempting it had been.

Asking him rather shyly to stay the night, Hermione had joked that as long as her mother had accused them of sleeping together, they might as well do it — at least the literal sleeping part. Besides, she had noted, Ron was already in his pyjamas.

Later, they had nervously climbed into Hermione's bed together, both grinning like nutters, and after a moment's hesitation, Hermione had scooted herself next to him beneath the covers. He swiftly pulled her close then and, as she tilted her face upward against his shoulder, he lowered his lips to hers. Gods, the sweet nothings she had whispered against his lips between those long and lazy kisses — and later, next to his ear as he'd trailed his mouth down her neck — well, they were mesmerizing.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" she had murmured as Ron explored her neck and then, budging aside the collar of her nightshirt, her shoulder with his lips.

"I do now," he said lowly as he pivoted them so that she was lying beneath him. "Starting to believe in all sorts of things, actually."

"Like what?" she asked breathlessly.

Ron returned his lips to her mouth, kissing her deeply as she ran her hands up his chest and over his shoulders. Then he broke away and pulled back, propping himself up on one elbow to look at her.

She had been a magnificent sight, hair tumbling about her pillow there in the moonlight, and he wondered if he'd ever be satisfied to sleep apart from her again. She had a questioning look on her face, however, which reminded him that he hadn't responded.

Running his free hand over her waist and to her bum, he tucked her lower half that much tighter beneath him and pondered his answer. "I don't know much about it, but I hear tell that the way we met — or the way we felt when we met — it maybe meant something. Not in the ordinary way, I mean." Sighing, he added, "Sorry, I'm not saying it right."

She had nodded, her eyes searching his face in the semi-darkness, silently encouraging him to continue.

"You felt it, I think, that night in Hogsmeade, yeah?" he said.

She hummed in agreement. There had been no need to be coy. They both felt it — and they both knew it.

"That's a thing. Fleur called it 'the thunderbolt.' It's a sign, or it can be a sign, of something kind of big," he continued.

"Something good?"

He smiled. "Something very good, yeah." He kissed her lightly, meaning to pull away and explain some more, but she let out a little moan as his lips pressed against hers and he sank into it, losing himself in the kiss.

Hermione had done something unexpected then — unexpected and incredibly captivating all at once. She had reached her hand in between them and, slowly and cautiously, unbuttoned her nightshirt, gradually exposing an irresistible expanse of creamy skin to Ron's sight and touch. He partook of her offering eagerly, kissing her chin, then her neck, then her collarbone as his hand glided upward from her bum to cup her breast. Bending low, his mouth caught up with his hand and, burying her fingers in his ginger locks, she moaned in barely repressed delight. "Oh, Ronnnnnnnnn," she breathed, and Ron had thought, with what little coherence he had left, that despite his years of experience he had never done or felt anything more sexy than this.

Before long, he had returned his mouth to hers and maneuvered himself that much more firmly on top of her. He had been instinctively rocking hips back and forth over hers by then, weeks' worth of pent-up desire for her making itself evident against her middle. She clutched at his back, urging him on, and through the fog of ardor that had clouded his mind, he somehow managed to keep himself more or less in check. Though he wouldn't let himself have all of her — not just yet, no matter how willing she seemed to be — he simply had to have more, and after tearing his lips away from her mouth and planting kisses on her cheeks, her nose and finally her forehead, he leaned back and angled himself to her side, running his fingers lightly and slowly down from her breast, over the expanse of her exposed belly, and to the hem of her cotton pyjama shorts.

"Has anyone ever …?" he had whispered as he delved deeper, angling his nose next to hers.

"No," she replied with an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

"May … would it be all right … ?"

"Yes," she breathed, placing a hand over his and pressing it closer to her body. "Please."

He kissed her gently as she slid her hand up his arm and encircled his neck, and suddenly had felt somewhat awestruck by the moment. Sex had never felt this way for him before. This was … important. Everything he did would be new for her, of course, but for him — this was new, too. Bedding a woman had been a fairly perfunctory affair before then, all about having fun, getting off. But this? He found, to his surprise, that all he really wanted was to touch her, to be close to her, to show her how much he adored her. He hadn't expected it, but the words of the magical Bonding vows — a ceremony he'd sat through countless times, barely thinking about their meaning, as brothers and cousins and friends got married — rang in his head: "With my body I thee worship." The act of touching her, in the most private possible place, in the most intimate possible way, suddenly seemed entirely transformed, and he silently chastised himself for ever being so flippant about such intimacies before.

Hermione, meanwhile, had melted beneath his fingers, her eyes shut languidly as her head tipped back into the pillow, a small smile playing about her lips. He was pleased she'd been so trusting, turning herself over to him without reservation, and as she slowly lost herself to his caress, he dropped his face next to her ear, alternately kissing it and whispering her name into it, deep and low.

She had peaked soon after, her blush blazing so bright he could see it shining in the moonlight. Breathless, she opened her eyes, instantly seeking out his. She tipped her gaze downward then, and he could tell instantly that she was sheepish about having been so reckless. He stepped in to fill the breach then, leaning over her and planting kisses across her forehead, her nose, and her piping hot cheeks. "You're beautiful, Hermione," he'd whispered, ignoring her disbelieving huff. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." She had made another little murmur of disagreement then, and he pressed on, leaning back to see her better — and so that she could see that he really meant it. "The way you look right here, right now … I'll never forget it for as long as I live."

She had returned the favor then, her trembling hand seeking out and finding his hardness, and he knew, given his heightened state of arousal, that it would take no more than a few strokes before the deed was done. She'd started tentatively, asking — adorably — if she was doing it right.

"Believe me, love, there's no wrong way to touch my cock," he'd said through a strangled exhale as he stretched out on his back beneath her, drawing forth a nervous laugh from Hermione. He'd helped her then, wrapping his large hand around her much tinier one, teaching her and discovering, to his wonderment, that her unstudied caresses were far more intoxicating than anything he'd experienced with many a more practiced partner.

Reliving it all in his mind, there in the darkened Archives room, reminded him how much he wanted to get back to her arms later that night, and so, forcing aside the tantalizing vision of Hermione's little hand wrapped around him, he bent his mind to his work, letting his burning curiosity about Margaret Farley be his guide.

Cleantha, the appropriately ancient Keeper of the Archives, had always been a bit sweet on Ron and had therefore been most helpful in pulling a batch of files under the name "Farley," and Ron was interested to find that there was indeed a wizarding family by that name, a few of whom would have been at Hogwarts at or around the time he was, which he reckoned explained why the name had been vaguely familiar to him.

There was a Gemma Farley, a Slytherin who, according to her file, was a prefect in 1991, the year Ron and Harry started at Hogwarts. She had no siblings, and it appears she died during the war, though the information in her file was fairly inconclusive about the cause of death. "Battle of Hogwarts" was all the detail that was available, at least in this dossier.

In another file Ron found information about a set of Gemma Farley's cousins. These Farleys appeared to be Ravenclaws, and all four — parents Jake and Madge, and children Bella and Charlie — were reported missing in 1997 and were marked in the dossier as certified dead by the Postwar Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Cause of death: A Death Eater raid on Godric's Hollow in early 1998.

Ron sighed. No Margarets anywhere in this pile of Dossiers. Cleantha had set another pile of dossiers to his right, but he decided he might be better off if he narrowed his search by identifying Margaret Farley's birth year first.

Fortunately, Cleantha had also given him the Volume MMDCCLXIV of the British Ministry of Magic's Directory of Magical Births, which he turned to next. Smelling of old parchment and dust, it was an enormous, leather-bound tome as wide as Ron's head. He dragged it to himself and flipped it open to the Table of Contents, resigning himself to its year-by-year listings. He was sure there was a spell he could use to instantly alphabetize the pages — which he reckoned would be much easier than poring through each year one at a time — but he didn't know it. This was going to take a while.

At least he knew — or at least hoped — that Margaret was born in the early part of the 20th century, and in Cambridgeshire. Starting in the year 1900, he scanned the Fs, finding Farleys but no Margaret Farley. The years 1901 through 1910 yielded no Farleys at all. A Brian Farley entered the world in 1911; a sibling, Ezekiel, came along in 1915. As he entered the 1920s, Ron was beginning to despair of finding another Farley. They weren't the most prolific bunch, it would seem, and while there were Weasleys galore, there were very few Farleys in the magical registry.

He rejoiced, however, when his eyes eventually landed on: _Margaret Rosa Farley, born in Cambridge, England, 19 September 1939, to Eleanor Montgomery Farley and Raymond Farley, muggles._

Muggles!

Every other Farley that Ron had come across thus far was either a pureblood or halfblood. Margaret Farley existed, but she was muggleborn!

Ron scribbled down the relevant information. Margaret Farley, he reckoned, could easily still be alive — she'd be only 65 — but he needed to be sure. Grabbing his wand, he said, "Accio Magical Death Registry 1930s Edition" and a leather-bound tome came flying to him from a shelf far out of sight within the rows upon rows of bookshelves to his left. He found no Margaret Farleys listed there, nor in the 1940s edition which he Accioed next, nor in the 1950s or the 1960s. It was in the 1970s, however, that Ron found the entry that catalogued her rather untimely death, at the age of 40:

 _Margaret Farley, died 19 September 1979, West Riding Lunatic Asylum at High Royds Hospital, Menston, West Yorkshire._

She died on her birthday, Ron noted, which was quite strange. And, sadly, she'd died in a muggle hospital for the mentally ill.

By this point, Ron was desperate to know whether Margaret had ever studied at Hogwarts or been treated for her illness at St. Mungo's. Her dossier, he knew, would bear the answers. A glance at the clock, however, showed that it was getting late — it was well past 9 o'clock. He was tantalizingly near the answers he sought, but he still might have several hours of work ahead of him. He'd also promised Hermione he would come 'round that night.

With a sigh, he made his decision, pushing back his chair and striding toward the Auror Corps offices, where he would use the muggle telephones to regretfully inform Hermione that he'd be stuck at work far too late for a visit.


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N**_ _— Trigger warning: This chapter deals with mental illness and psychiatric treatments that are thankfully from a bygone era. But don't worry — I won't dwell on them for long, and the next chapter will be free of the gory details._

 **Chapter 22**

Ron ambled down Saints Hill Road, leafy bushes and trees to his left, a magnificent, sunlit view of the rolling hills of Kent and the River Medway to his right, as he made his way toward the Tonbridge pub where Hugh had indicated they should meet: The Spotted Dog. "It's a bit of a drive for me, Ron, but I'd rather meet you there than anywhere near my office here in Sevenoaks, if that's all right," Hugh had said over the phone. "It's nice and private there as well."

Privacy had continued to be a priority for Hugh, and now that Ron had compiled a more complete dossier on Margaret Farley, he at least partially understood Hugh's reticence.

Poor Margaret Farley. Ever since that night spent in the darkness of the Ministry Archives, Ron couldn't get her out of his head. The Ministry dossier on her, once he found it, had been frustratingly blank — no Hogwarts attendance records, no visits to St. Mungo's, no accounts at Gringotts, no wand registration, no Apparition license, no record of any magical violations. Based on the information available at the Ministry of Magic, all he could know was that she was born, and when, and to whom, and when and where she died. But that was all. As far as he could tell, Margaret Farley had indeed been born with magical abilities — the Ministry's records were iron-clad on that score — but she had never in her short life interacted with the magical world. This fact was baffling enough, but he had been even more curious to know why Hugh Granger had been interested to learn more about her. What was the connection? And why had he been so circumspect about it when he raised the matter with Ron?

Since Margaret Farley had lived her life for all intents and purposes as a muggle, Ron had reckoned he'd have to try to track down information about her through muggle records. The next morning, he put in a request for a week's time off in order to dedicate himself to the effort — Brocklehurst gave him the OK immediately, since he was owed months and months of unused leave as it was — and Ron then began digging deeper. Fortunately, his Otters teammate Smitty McGinnis ran the Muggle Liaison Office and, in short order, he was able to help Ron identify which bureau of the muggle National Health Service he would need to hit up — and he also went so far as to create a form that gave Ron clearance to view Margaret's files at the NHS that very morning. Ron would, of course, have to present himself as one NHS Inspector Stanley Gladstone to get the job done, but Smitty had also helpfully created a remarkably realistic-looking set of credentials — complete with a muggle-style photo of Ron — that did indeed prove remarkably helpful when Ron appeared at the NHS Archives Bureau that afternoon.

The NHS file, as Ron predicted, was indeed a gold mine of information about Margaret Farley, and as he rounded the last bend and spied the old whitewashed pub where he'd agreed to meet Hugh, he picked up his pace, eager to finally put to rest some of the questions that so troubled him for days.

It took Ron's eyes a moment to adjust to the much darker light of the pub's interior, a room dominated by a low, beamed ceiling, open hearths, and a long, wooden bar. Hugh waved to Ron from his seat at the bar and, as Ron joined him, he offered him a hearty handshake before ordering them both a pint and leading him to a comfortable table near the hearth.

"Thanks so much for coming, Ron, and once again, I'm dreadfully sorry to be so tight-lipped about this matter," Hugh said. "I'm delighted you've made progress. If you tell me what you've learned, I will certainly do my level best to explain it all. I owe you at least that much for all the trouble I've caused you."

"It's no trouble, honestly," Ron said. "If what I've put together helps you, then I have to hope it helps Hermione." It had been difficult, for the past two nights, to stop by Hermione's flat in the evenings and _not_ tell her what he'd been working on, but he had promised Hugh to keep things confidential for the time being. He only hoped that, once the mystery had been cleared up, the information he was gathering would somehow benefit Hermione. He had to take it on faith that her father had her best interests at heart. Still, he didn't feel right keeping secrets from her, and that discomfort meant that he'd kept his visits to Hermione's on the brief side. No sleepovers. No passionate snogging. When she appeared worried by his apparent distraction, he had told her that he was simply up to his eyeballs with work — which he knew was bending the truth just past the breaking point, but he had to hope he'd be able to come clean with her soon. With a sigh at this thought, he added, "Hermione's what really matters to me in all this, Mr. Granger."

Hugh, who had been sipping his porter when Ron said this, cocked his eyebrow and swallowed. "How long have you and Hermione been dating, Ron?" It was a straightforward question, one Hugh knew might come off as prying, but he sensed that he could be direct with Ron, and that Ron would be direct in return.

He reckoned he was correct, for Ron didn't hesitate to look him in the eye and answer plainly. "We met about six weeks ago, I believe, and we've been seeing each other ever since."

"Hmm," Hugh said. "That's not terribly long."

"No, but, well, we've gotten to be pretty close in that span of time, sir."

"So it would seem," Hugh said, and for the first time, Ron appeared to him to be a bit uneasy. "Don't worry, son, I don't mean to interfere. I'm only curious. Hermione hasn't — well, you're the first boyfriend of hers I've ever met, you see. It's a father's duty to ask questions."

"I understand, sir," Ron said quickly, but then, sensing that he perhaps hadn't made himself entirely understood, he added, "I realize she and I haven't been together long, Mr. Granger, but I do care about her, very much. I have from the beginning. I know that might sound a bit mad to you."

Hugh laughed at this. "I was young once, Ron," he said with a smile. "As long as you treat her right, you'll hear no objections from me."

Ron nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Hugh put down his glass and rubbed his hands together briskly. "Well then," he said, "what were you able to learn about Margaret Farley?"

Reaching into his messenger bag, Ron pulled out a manila file folder stuffed with papers, laid the folder on the table, and folded his hands on top of it. He wouldn't have to refer to his notes — it was all emblazoned in his memory. The documents were there only to serve as back-up information for Hugh. Fortunately, the pub was crowded enough that their conversation wouldn't be overheard, but not so crowded as to be too noisy to speak.

"As you suspected, Mr. Granger, Margaret Farley is indeed in the Ministry of Magic's registry of magical births. She was born in the year 1939 to muggle parents, Eleanor Montgomery Farley and Raymond Farley. Here is her birth certificate," he said, pulling the document from the folder and handing it to Hugh.

Hugh looked the document over, saying in a hushed voice, "Elly and Ray. Well I'll be…" His voice trailed off as his eyes continued to scan the paper. "Now _there's_ an odd coincidence," he said in a stronger voice.

"What's that, sir?"

"Oh nothing, it's just that — well, it's just a strange surprise, that's all," said Hugh. "Margaret Farley was born on 19 September, and so was Hermione," he added, laying the certificate on the table in front of Ron and pointing out the date. "Doesn't mean anything. It's just interesting."

Ron shrugged. He didn't know Hermione's birthday — though he reckoned now he did, and he made a mental note of it. What would she like as a gift? Then he shook himself mentally — _not now, eedjit_ — before returning his mind to the task at hand. "So, like Hermione, Margaret Farley was what magical people would call a muggleborn."

"Indeed."

Ron took another sip of his porter and then carried on. "Also like Hermione, Margaret never received magical training. The Archives at the Ministry of Magic contained no information on her except for her dates of birth and death. I did manage to track her down through the muggle NHS, though. Turns out that, when she was 20, her family committed her to a lunatic asylum in Yorkshire called High Royds." Ron shuddered at the memory of the place. He'd Apparated there the day before and wandered the grounds of the facility, which had only been abandoned the previous year. He would not soon forget what he found within the elaborate Victorian complex of gothic stone buildings — enormous, ballroom-sized spaces with vaulted ceilings, paint peeling from the walls, elaborately tiled floors, closed-off cells, surgeries, dismal dormitories, morgues and dining halls, all haunted by the ghosts of residents past. Among the ghosts he met there, none were terribly helpful, and none seemed to recall a woman named Margaret Farley, though Ron certainly had asked every one he met. He decided, however, to skip telling Hugh the bit about ghosts — and told himself not to feel guilty for excluding it, since none of High Royds' ghosts had been particularly enlightening anyway.

"High Royds. I didn't know the name," Hugh said with a shake of the head.

Ron wasn't sure what Hugh meant by that, but rather than press him, he decided instead to open the file and extract another document. "This is one of the evaluations that was written on Margaret Farley when she was admitted," he said, handing the sheaf of papers to Hugh. "Sad bit of business, this one is."

Indeed it was. Hugh's eye fell to the section Ron had highlighted in yellow:

 _Patient Margaret Farley, aged 20 years, 3 months, was commended to the care of High Royds staff on 26 December 1959. Upon one week's observation in the hospital's intake ward, staff has found behavior consistent with Ms. Farley's family's testimony: paranoid, delusional, anxious, and sometimes violent. Severe cognitive dysfunction. Believes she can perform magic, talks quite incessantly about hidden powers and forces which she claims she can harness and exploit to her will. Has had several encounters with law enforcement in which she has been suspected of setting small fires and otherwise destroying property, all the while maintaining her innocence. Diagnosis: Schizophrenia_.

"Oh dear," Hugh said with a sigh. "It is as I suspected."

"Hmm," said Ron noncommittally, again figuring he ought to bide his time and let Hugh explain more fully when he was ready. "She wouldn't be the first magical person to be declared insane by muggles — and I daresay she won't be the last."

"Terrible," Hugh muttered with a shake of his head. "Just dreadful."

Ron nodded. "There's more." Taking the sheaf of papers from Hugh's hands, he flipped to the last page and pointed toward another highlighted section:

 _Patient Farley has been non-responsive to electro-convulsive therapy, cardiazol, and other forms of treatment. Given staff's general consensus that she is a danger to herself and others, Chief Surgeon Eustace Buttons recommends and has scheduled this patient for leukotomy, or full frontal lobotomy, effective immediately_.

"Dear God," Hugh muttered.

"I know," said Ron. "Awful. Apparently they did it in 1960. She was just 21."

"Bugger."

"Bugger indeed."

They sat and looked at the paperwork for another moment longer, not really reading it anymore — rather, simply absorbing what had already been revealed. That is, until Ron remembered that there was one detail more that he ought to share. "She lived that way for the next 19 years, until she died at High Royds of lung disease on her 40th birthday, strangely enough."

This statement snapped Hugh out of his reverie. "Her 40th birthday, did you say?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Are you sure? Quite sure?"

"About what?"

"About her date of death."

Ron reopened his folder and shuffled through the papers within until he found Margaret Farley's death certificate. Handing it to Hugh, he said, "Yeah, it's odd isn't it? Dying on your birthday? Struck me as weird, too."

Shaking his head as he looked over the document, Hugh said, "You don't know the half of it, my boy."

"What do you mean?"

Pointing to the date on the certificate, Hugh said, "This is the day Hermione was born."

"Huh?"

There, by Hugh's index finger, was the date: _19 September 1979._

"Well, whaddya know about that," said Ron. "Blimey."

Hugh let out a mirthless laugh. "This will strike you as stranger still, Ron, when I tell you the rest of the story. You see, my wife's maiden name was Farley. Margaret Farley is — or was — my wife's aunt."

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— If you're curious, High Royds is a real place. A very real place. Google it up. While you're at it, Google up the Spotted Dog. One of my favorite pubs in the entire world._

 _Thank you for sticking with this story. I realize this chapter is fairly dark, but don't worry — Our Favorite Couple will be enjoying sunnier times, and soon. In the meantime, please do leave your constructive feedback in the review section. I like to hear from you._

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

"Well this is a pleasant surprise," Hermione said as she opened her door to find Ron climbing the stairs to her flat. "Come in, come in."

He didn't come in, however. Rather, he gathered her in his arms in her doorway and, pulling her close, he kissed her soundly, more soundly than he had in days — the kind of kiss that left her slightly lightheaded many minutes later when he was through.

Gasping for air and pressing a hand to her forehead, she smiled and said, "All right, _don't_ come in."

He laughed then, because he was genuinely happy to see her — happy to hear her laughing and joking, and he wished desperately that he didn't have to break the mood. But he knew he must. With the kiss, he'd let out at least some of the pent-up feelings that had built up over the previous few days, but he'd also bought himself a little bit of time before having to confront reality, before having to do what he'd come there to do.

Leaving The Spotted Dog minutes earlier, he and Hugh had agreed that there was nothing for it — they had to sit Eleanor and Hermione down and discuss what they'd pieced together. It wouldn't be easy, but it had to be done. There was no point in delay. So while Hugh drove back to the Grangers' house, Ron would collect Hermione and bring her by there as well. Looking into her eyes, he clenched his jaw and prepared to take the plunge.

As he had on his previous visits earlier in the week, Ron seemed … a bit off … to Hermione, and once again seeing a cloud pass over his previously sunny expression, it worried her all over again. She had spent more energy than she cared to admit in the previous days fretting over his distracted mood and what it meant. Now that it was Friday, this had been going on for the better part of a week, and it was beginning to prey on her nerves. She had repeatedly reminded herself that he'd said he had been very busy on a case. Even so, her insecurities often got the better of her, and she cycled between wondering whether he regretted going so far as to say the "L" word, or whether perhaps she shouldn't have sent Pig to fetch him the other night with a note pleading with him to come, or whether he now thought she was a bit, erm, _shameless_ to invite him to stay that night. Usually, the logical side of her mind would prevail — he'd come to visit every evening, hadn't he, and he certainly seemed genuinely pleased to see her just then — but her self-doubt would inevitably creep back into her consciousness all the same.

He kissed her again softly, settling the fluttering in her tummy somewhat, then took her hands in his.

"Listen, love, this is going to sound a little weird, but bear with me," he said quietly, looking deeply into her eyes in a way he hadn't since he'd climbed out of her bed that Monday morning and Apparated himself away to work. "You see, I'm here to pick you up and bring you by your parents' place — that is, if you're not busy."

"My … you're … _what_?"

"Like I said, it's weird, but, well, it'll make sense once we get there, I promise."

It wasn't long before they were landing in the Grangers' rose garden, entering the house through the kitchen door and joining Hugh and a very confused Eleanor sitting in the lounge. Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly. She hadn't spoken with her mother since the blow-up on Sunday, and it was clear from the icy glare her mother cast her way that the passage of a few days had done little to ease the tension.

Shooting a disdainful look at Ron, Eleanor said, "What on earth is he doing here?"

Hugh sighed and stood, stopping toward the mantlepiece. "Ron is here, Eleanor, because I asked him to come," he said evenly, and Ron and Hermione obeyed when he gestured them toward the sofa to sit. "He's here because Hermione cares about him. And he's here because he has done me an enormous favor, one that could do this family a world of good."

Eleanor said nothing to this, instead choosing to remain silent and straighten her back defiantly. "All right then," she said. "I'm listening."

"Thank you, darling," said Hugh softly, "but this isn't just about you. It's about Hermione as well."

"I'm listening too, Daddy. But," Hermione said, scooting a bit closer to Ron and taking his hand, "I can't deny that you two are making me a bit nervous. Could you please tell us what's going on?"

Ron squeezed her hand reassuringly and Hugh stuffed his hands into his pockets and broke into an apologetic smile. "Sorry, kitten," he said. "It's … well, it's difficult to know where to start. But, you see, I've wondered about something for quite some time — years, really — and I had no way to check out my hunch. That is, until I met Ron."

Hermione lifted her eyes to Ron, eyebrows raised. He shrugged and smiled shyly at her before turning his attention back to Hugh.

Eleanor, meanwhile, was growing restless. "What does he have to do with this?" she said, no longer sounding testy but rather seeming genuinely curious and perhaps even a bit wary.

"I'm sorry, I've been beating around the bush, haven't I," he said. "What I'm about to say is likely to be upsetting to you, Eleanor, but I'm hoping that eventually we'll all agree it's for the best. Darling, I asked Ron to see what he could find out for me — for _us_ — about your Aunt Margaret."

A long, tense silence followed in which the ticking of the grandfather clock in the front hallway seemed to everyone to be almost deafening.

Eleanor shook her head slowly, her brow furrowed. "You," she said at a near whisper, "you what?"

"I had a theory," Hugh began, "though you would never say—"

"I would never say because I didn't know, Hugh. I suspected, but I didn't _know_. I was a child when they sent Margie away. No one would tell me the truth. And when Hermione started … well, then I didn't _want_ to know. Why can't you understand that?"

As Eleanor spoke, Hugh went to her side and knelt before her, taking her trembling hands in his. "You were so little when your aunt went away, darling. I reckoned no one told you the entire story, and I've always thought we'd all be better off if we knew, if we could finally talk about it."

Hermione shuddered as she listened, and Ron, feeling it, dropped her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She sank against him, not sure what to make of this extraordinary conversation taking place between her parents, almost as if she and Ron weren't there. The hair on the back of her neck, however, prickled uncomfortably as she struggled to make sense of what she was hearing. Her mother had an aunt — an aunt she apparently very much didn't wan't to talk about — who had been sent away for some reason. Hermione had always believed that her mother's father was an only child. Her mother never mentioned having an aunt, and Nana and Grampy Farley never mentioned having a daughter. Hermione's curiosity was running wild, but she could do nothing more than watch and listen, praying that somehow her parents and perhaps Ron would soon fill in the gaps.

"So you learned," Eleanor said thickly, "you learned she was magical?"

Hugh nodded and turned to Ron.

"Yes," Ron said quietly. "Margaret Farley is on the Ministry's registry of magical births, just as Hermione is."

Eleanor stiffened at this and, with a great and sudden intake of breath, she stood, and Hugh made way for her. "I just need … please … I need a moment to think," she said and then hastened to the french doors that opened onto the rose garden.

Hugh stood to look through the window. From there — and from where Hermione and Ron still sat — they could see Eleanor standing before a bed of Hugh's prize-winning roses, her back turned toward the house, her slender frame racked by sobs.

"Should one of us go out and talk with her, Daddy?" Hermione said in a small voice.

Hugh sighed. "I will, kitten, but let's give her some time. This is a lot for her to take in."

Hermione nodded, and Hugh sank into the chair that Eleanor had occupied.

"I owe you more of an explanation than you've gotten so far, Hermione," Hugh said. "You see, in the early years of our marriage, your mother confessed to me that she had an Aunt Margaret whom she loved very much. She was only ten years' your mother's senior, mind. They were close. But when your mother was ten years old, you see, Margaret was sent away to an asylum. A mental hospital," he amended when he saw Hermione's look of confusion. "It was always treated as a great family secret. No one ever visited her. There was no contact. None whatsoever. It was sad, but I thought nothing more of it than that for years. The Farleys certainly wouldn't be the first family to treat a mental illness as something to be ashamed of, and unfortunately they won't be the last."

"That's just awful," Hermione said, her voice creaking with emotion.

"Dreadful, yes," Hugh continued, clasping his hands together and taking a deep breath. "And so it went until … well, until you were six, kitten."

Hermione gasped in surprise, and Ron pulled her that much closer. "What?" she breathed. "What do you mean?"

"Do you remember when …" Hugh chuckled softly despite the gravity of the moment. "Oh, you were frightfully angry with us … it was your bedtime and you didn't want to go and, well, you made it rain in the kitchen. Do you remember?"

Hermione nodded, and Ron couldn't help but laugh at the image of a tiny Hermione doing what all magical children do — letting loose Raw Magic at unexpected and random moments, especially when angry or upset.

"We were both rattled by it, naturally. I'd never seen anything like it. But your mother, well," Hugh said with a shrug. "She murmured 'Auntie Margie,' under her breath, and that caught my attention. When I asked her about it later, she denied ever having said anything of the sort. But it stuck in my head. And every time your … abilities … became apparent, Eleanor would bridle," he continued, shaking his head sadly. "The coup de grace was when the Hogwarts letter arrived. I've never seen her so adamant. It was never to be discussed — never — and Hermione, the greatest regret of my life is that I didn't push harder."

Hermione rose from her seat and crossed the room, kneeling before her father and allowing herself to be enfolded in a tight, bear hug. "You did your best, Daddy," Hermione said through a sniffle. "It must have been so frightening."

"It was," Hugh said, his cheek pressed against the top of her head. "It was, kitten, but please try to understand. Your mother was frightened, too. She was only trying to protect you. She didn't mean to hurt you. And neither did I." Hugh lifted his eyes to look at Ron, then, and gave him a rueful smile. "I understand now that we did cause you pain, kitten, and I'm terribly, terribly sorry."

Ron blinked rapidly to fight back a wave of tears of his own, and gave Hugh a tight nod. Seeing this, Hugh pulled away from Hermione and said, "Perhaps I should go see about your mother now. If you'll excuse me."

In the garden, Eleanor heard Hugh approach. Try as she might, she couldn't call upon her usual reserve of indignation, she somehow wasn't able to wall herself off from him as she had become so adept at doing. Instead, her shoulders slumped as she gave in to another wave of sobs, and the touch of his hand on her arm, rather than make her tense up, only seemed to melt her further until she could do no more than sink into him and let him pull her close.

"Oh darling," Hugh said tenderly. "I'm so sorry. I truly am. But isn't it better to know that it was magic, not madness?"

Eleanor shook her head against his chest. "I'm not so sure that there's a difference," she said bitterly.

"How can you say that? There's a world of difference."

With a great sniffle, Eleanor said, "She'd have been an outcast from us either way. Lost to us, whether in madness or in the so-called magical world."

"You can't mean that."

With another sob, Eleanor relented. "Of course not. You're right. I just … oh Hugh, why did you have to go and dredge up all this … this grief? Why muddy the waters? Hermione has always been perfectly happy just as she is."

Hugh took Eleanor by the shoulders and pulled her back so that he could look in her face. "Are you blind, love? Are you really that blind that you can't see how miserable she's been?"

Eleanor searched his face and shook her head. "Miserable? Don't be hyperbolic, Hugh. She's had her share of teenaged angst, like any young girl, but she's hardly miserable."

"Eleanor, Hermione works in the same school that she attended as a child. Except for the three years she spent at Oxford, she's hardly left the confines of Sevenoaks." Eleanor shook her head again and Hugh latched onto her shoulders that much harder, pressing on. "Hermione's one childhood friend left at the age of eleven to go join a world she couldn't be a part of, and the schoolmates that remained could never be truly close to her because she had a tremendous secret she couldn't share. She's never had a boyfriend until Ron. She's spent her Saturday nights at home with a cup of tea and a book. This is Hermione we're talking about — a lovely and utterly brilliant young woman. She should be setting the world on its ear and instead she's lived a cramped, circumscribed little life with her parents as her only true friends. If you think that's not miserable, then you haven't been paying attention."

Eleanor dissolved into tears once again at this, and Hugh pulled her back into his arms. "I'm sorry, darling," he whispered into her ear. "It's no good fooling ourselves any longer. We have to help her. We owe her that much. We owe Margie that much."

After a few more minutes spent in Hugh's embrace, Eleanor finally straightened up and, accepting the handkerchief on offer from Hugh, dried her face and attempted to pull herself together. "Meet me inside," she said shakily, and Hugh let her go, watching as she re-entered the house and, avoiding the lounge where Ron and Hermione still sat, climbed the back stairs.

Hugh then rejoined Hermione and Ron.

"Everything all right, sir?" Ron asked as Hugh resumed his seat.

"I think so, Ron, or at least we're getting there."

"Would you prefer that I go, sir?"

"No!" both Hermione and Hugh said in unison. Hermione chuckled in mild embarrassment and then continued, "No, stay. I want you here." Then turning to her father, Hermione added, "Ron was just explaining that muggleborns — that's what I'm known as — well, muggleborns usually have ancestors who were magical."

"Yeah, they say it skips generations sometimes," Ron said.

"Fascinating," Hugh said. He was about to ask Ron whether any scientific research has been done on that phenomenon when a red-eyed and sniffling Eleanor re-entered the room carrying a large manila envelope.

"Are you OK, Mum?" Hermione said quietly.

Eleanor exhaled unevenly. "Actually, darling, yes I am," she said, looking down at the envelope. "Better than I've felt in quite some time, to be honest. Like a weight has lifted off my shoulders."

She sat on the armchair next to Hugh's and ran her fingers over the envelope absently. "I owe all of you an apology," Eleanor said. "Ron, I've been beastly to you. When I think how I've behaved, well, I'm quite ashamed of myself. I hope I can earn your forgiveness."

Ron sat up a little straighter and shook his head. "There's no need for that, ma'am," he said quietly. "I understand, and there's really nothing to forgive."

Eleanor smiled weakly at him. "I don't entirely agree, but I won't quibble," she said, turning her eyes to Hermione. "Darling, I can't begin to make you understand … to tell you how sorry I am …"

But before she could finish her thought, Hermione had launched herself at her mother to kneel before her and pull her into a tight embrace. They sobbed wordlessly that way for several minutes, before Eleanor was able to collect herself and urged Hermione to straighten up and look at her.

"When we brought Hermione home from hospital, a week or so after she was born, this was waiting for me in our mailbox," Eleanor said, handing Hermione the large manila envelope addressed, in a tight, neat script, to her mother. Hermione noted the postmark: 20 September 1979. The envelope itself looked crisp and new, as if it had barely been touched since her mother opened it 25 years earlier.

She looked to her mother, who gave her a tight-lipped nod as if to say, _Go ahead. Open it_.

Hermione stood and returned to her spot on the sofa next to Ron. To Hermione's surprise, however, she found that her hands were shaking so terribly that she couldn't manage to undo the clasp holding the envelope shut. With a grim smile, she handed it to Ron, who opened the clasp and handed the envelope back to her. She reached in and extracted a letter written on creamy paper adorned with an official-looking seal at the top.

"Read it out loud, darling," Eleanor urged quietly.

Hermione nodded and, taking the page in her trembling hand, she read:

 _Mrs. Hugh Granger_  
 _8 Fen Meadow_  
 _Ightham, Sevenoaks, Kent_

 _Dear Mrs. Granger,_

 _I have just finished the unhappy business of writing to your father to inform him of the death of his sister and your aunt, Margaret Rosa Farley. Miss Farley passed away yesterday, 19 September, in the intensive care ward of our institution after a lengthy illness. The final three months of her life, sadly, were spent in a comatose state. We are in the process of forwarding her personal effects to your father even now, but my work would not be complete if I did not also forward to you personally the enclosed letter. Three months ago, while she was still conscious, Miss Farley gave this letter to me, expressing the fervent desire that you should receive it, on behalf of your child, upon her death. I have not opened the letter and therefore am unaware of its contents, but she was most adamant that I must send it. Out of respect for her memory, I am fulfilling her last wish._

 _Please accept my condolences for your loss._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Sister Octavia Dudgeon_  
 _Headmistress of Nursing Services_  
 _High Royds Hospital_  
 _Ilkley, West Yorkshire_

Hermione blinked a few times, looking over the text again. "Wait — Margaret asked that this be sent to you 'on behalf of your child'? How is that possible? I wasn't even born when she wrote it."

Eleanor sighed and nodded, her lip wobbling. "Look and see."

Peering into the large manila envelope, Hermione spied a smaller envelope of the same creamy white paper. Pulling it out, she first noticed that the envelope had been opened. "Of course I read it," Eleanor confessed quietly.

"As would I," Hermione said, giving her a small smile. "No worries."

Flipping over the envelope, Hermione saw that it was addressed with a shaky hand in a tiny scrawl so faint, it was as if the writer had barely pressed the pen against its surface. The address was simply: "Baby."

Hermione felt a chill go up her spine and rack her body at the sight of it. Seeing this, Ron pulled her close once again. "You all right, love?"

Blinking back tears, she nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

Opening the envelope with trembling fingers, Hermione pulled out a piece of paper bearing High Royds letterhead. There, in the same faint and wobbly script as on the outside of the envelope, was Margaret Farley's message to Eleanor Granger's child:

 _Baby,_

 _You are coming. I have been holding on, waiting for you. I kept the magic just for you. When you come I will leave. When you come, I will leave the magic for you. Do not be afraid._

 _I am not mad. You are not mad. The magic is yours. Do not let them take it away._

 _You are not mad. You are magical._

 _Margaret Rosa Farley._

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— Please review!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

She gazed up at him in the darkness of the rose garden, her cheeks painted with tears that glistened silver in the moonlight. He was overcome, looking down at her, by an emotion so intense, so concentrated, that he could not name it. He only sensed, as he had several times since he'd met her, that he'd connected with something bigger than himself, and she was somehow the key to it, and that at moments like this it was best not to question but instead to ride the tide of feeling and let it lead him — lead them — where it may.

She was still breathing heavily from the exertion of crying, something she'd been doing on and off all evening as she and her parents wrestled with secrets revealed, waves of empathy for one another's suffering, as well as the inevitable recriminations and regrets as each new layer of information was brought to light through Ron's careful recitation of the research he'd done. He reckoned she ought to be exhausted, and maybe she was, but there was a faint glimmer of something else in her eyes, sparkling in the warm light spilling out of her parents' kitchen windows, that signaled something different.

"Take me away from here," she said in an urgent whisper. And he knew immediately what she meant. When they'd bid her parents adieu just moments earlier, he'd expected to Side-Along her back to her flat. But now it was clear she had no intention of going there. She wanted nothing of the muggle world for now — she wanted _his_ world, and he would take her to it, wrap her in it, for no other reason than because it was her wish. Her wish, he now understood, was very much his command.

Placing Hermione's arms around his neck and grasping her by the waist, Ron Disapparated, and they landed where he'd longed to take her for days, to the edge of the wards outside Vine Cottage. Gathering herself as she always felt she must after Side-Alonging, she looked up from the grassy knoll where they stood, his luminous face occupying half of her field of vision, the night sky — much darker here than in Sevenoaks and yet sprayed with a dizzying array of stars — taking up the rest. A soft summer breeze wrapped them in cricketsong and the smell of wet grass and the wildflowers growing along the creekbed nearby. She sank her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him to her, and he answered by drawing her that much closer to him, nearly lifting her, until she was on tiptoe and she was near enough that her breath, still faintly and sweetly redolent of the tandoori chicken takeaway they'd eaten in near silence in her parents' kitchen — as he was sure his was — warmed his lips.

He brushed his mouth against hers softly, noticing for what seemed to be the hundredth time that her lips felt like no other woman's to him, that something sparkled in his veins when he touched them, and then his mind became a whirl of other thoughts — of compassion for her suffering, wonder at her strength, solemn gratitude that he'd found her, but eventually it all distilled itself into desire: a deep and almost terrifying need to hold onto her, to protect her, to never let her go, as the gentle caress of his lips turned into something deeper.

She let herself get lost in his kiss, clinging to his neck and no longer caring if she remained upright or even fully conscious. His strong arms, wrapped around her waist, were for that moment all the proof she needed that she was not alone anymore, that she could set aside her cares for at least the remainder of the evening, that he would look out for her and keep her safe — though she couldn't know that he'd already dedicated himself to doing just that for her for far longer than just the evening.

Before long, Ron pulled his lips away from Hermione's and lifted her, carrying her effortlessly in the darkness up the surprisingly steep slope to the darkened house at the top of the hill, its slate roof and vine-covered surfaces shimmering in the starlight. She pulled herself closer to him as he strode along, tucking her forehead against the side of his neck and watching as the house came into clearer view, its wide front steps and leafy porch bidding her welcome. It was a magical house, a magical house in a magical community surrounded by magical wards and inhabited by a magical man, and she wanted nothing more at that moment than to be immersed and enclosed within it, to leave the muggle world behind, to _belong_ , right where she was.

Ron wordlessly bid the door to open and, as he stepped through it, it occurred to Hermione that they hadn't spoken a word since they'd left her parents' house, and she didn't care. There was much to discuss, but now wasn't the time. There was much to be said, but words would have to wait.

Without pausing to consider or prevaricate, Ron stepped toward the front hall stairway and carried Hermione up toward his ultimate destination, his bedroom, which, had he been less intoxicated by need and want, he would have noted in amusement happened still to be the only furnished room in the house. But his mind was focused on an entirely singular purpose. He wanted Hermione in his bed. He wouldn't have taken her anywhere else at that moment even if he'd had a whole house full of furniture. His bed, as far as he was concerned, was the heart of his home, and he wanted to take her there, to enfold her in it, to make it hers as well as his, then and there and forever if she wished it.

As he lit the hearth silently and then a lantern on a nightstand laden with books, Hermione could see that it was a long room that took up the entire back half of the second floor, with a bank of windows and a set of french doors opening onto what appeared to be a long balcony. Ron commanded the doors to open, letting in the sound of crickets and the scented breeze. At one end of the room, near the hearth, Hermione saw there was nestled a pair of large, overstuffed armchairs, an ottoman, and a comfy-looking sofa. The opposite end of the room, however, was dominated by the largest four-poster bed Hermione had ever seen, its fluffy white bedclothes comically rumpled, and piles of downy pillows stacked against the dark mahogany headboard. Ron waved aside the duvet with a flick of his wand, and Hermione answered by kicking off her ballet flats, which prompted Ron to step out of his boots as he laid her gently on the bed before climbing in above her.

He paused to look her over in the lantern light, leaning back on his elbows and running a finger over her eyebrow, the curve of her cheekbone and the angle of her jaw. Her eyes, in this light, had darkened to a chocolate brown, and her caramel-colored curls were darker as well, contrasting with her creamy skin the color of almond milk. She looked … she _was_ … so innocent, so unspoiled, so vulnerable and yet so intelligent, so capable. He was quite certain she had no idea how beautiful she was. She hadn't been admired enough, not nearly as much as she deserved. He had so much to make up for, the years when she'd hidden herself from the world, escaping into Jane Austen's Pemberley and Thomas Malory's Camelot, and for reasons he couldn't begin to understand, all he wanted to do was kneel before her, adore her, make her see herself as he saw her, and he started with another kiss, a deeper one this time, more forceful than perhaps he'd intended, but a blissful hum bloomed from her throat when he began it and she loosened her arms from about his neck and eased herself that much more deeply into the pillows, which only spurred him on.

He rolled onto his side toward the center of the bed then, carrying her with him so that she was atop him for a time, her curls cascading to encircle his face as she kissed him back, tongues entwining as Ron ran his hands up and down her back. On one of these journeys, his hand grasped the hem of the simple navy-blue T-shirt she'd been wearing and lifted it, and she leaned back and helped him remove it before he swiftly reached around and without ceremony divested her of her plain white brassiere as well, tossing it to the side and then running his hands up her sides to cup her breasts in his large, graceful, freckled hands. She was sitting astride him then and could feel his hardness through her jeans, but she noticed that she wasn't afraid. Far from it. She knew, especially after all he'd done for her and all he was wordlessly promising to do from there on, that she could never feel afraid of him, that she could trust him and always would, and it was with that thought in her head that she leaned forward and placed her breast within range of his lips, tucking her hands behind his head and watching in fascination as he kissed her tenderly, her fingers threading in and out of his copper-colored locks. As Ron took her in his mouth, he pressed her closer with one hand cradled at the base of her back while he gently traced her chest with his other hand, his fingertips trailing from her neck to her collarbone to her nipple and back again. A thought that had never before occurred to him flashed in his mind, that he was suckling her as a child might, maybe his child, someday, and as he reflexively endeavored to banish this notion as inappropriate or maybe even just weird, he remembered that this was Hermione, after all, and suddenly it didn't seem so strange. Rather, perhaps it was a glimpse of something to come, certainly something he wanted, and that idea warmed him from the inside out.

He flipped her over onto her back then, chuckling at her peep of surprise, and, hovering over her, he pulled off his own T-shirt, and smiled when he saw the wide-eyed look that came over her face as she took in the expanse of his chest. He allowed her to explore his neck, his shoulders, his chest and his biceps with her eyes and hands before lowering himself to lie atop her and savor the feel of her skin next to his, sighing deeply at the contact. Returning his mouth to hers, he knew she could feel his erection against her middle, even through two layers of jeans, for he was indeed as hard as an anvil by then, but he didn't feel the need to be shy about it. Indeed, she had opened her legs, tentatively at first, to draw him nearer, and was now rocking her hips ever so slightly against his. She wanted him. Did she want all of him? He leaned back after a few minutes, looking into her eyes, to be sure. She was breathless and red-cheeked, a faint smile on her lips, and she gave him a slight firm nod. Yes. She was ready. And, sweet Merlin, so was he.

Taking his wand from the nightstand, he Vanished the remainder of their clothes then, no longer interested in taking things slow, and cast a Contraception charm over himself. They had the rest of their lives to take things slow, but at that moment, all Ron wanted was to be one with her for once and for all, to make her his and bring her into his world completely and forever. He leaned aside her then and touched her, knowing this would be a better experience for her if she were truly prepared, and so he caressed her as he had learned to do that first night in her bed in Sevenoaks, feeling his way along with her until she was like quicksilver beneath his fingers, warm and slick, murmuring and inviting. In the process, she'd buried her face against his shoulder, and when she returned to earth, she ran her fingers up his chest and his neck before taking his chin in her hand and directing his lips to hers. Eyes closed, she recovered her breath slowly, breathing through her nostrils as he probed her lips with his tongue. She felt him shift his weight then and prop himself above her on his elbows, and he pulled back again to look at her, wordlessly urging her to return his gaze.

Running her hands up his arms, so solidly pinned next to her shoulders, she looked longingly into the blueness of his eyes, which were dark and deep in the lantern light, and gave him the signal he needed — a fearless nod — and he took action, pausing long enough to say, in a sincere voice that pierced the silence, "I love you. I love you so much."

She smiled through the tears that rose in her eyes to say, "I love you too, Ron. Truly," and he moved then, slightly and carefully, and she willed herself to relax and let it happen. It did, eventually, a giving way that didn't hurt as much as she'd been led to expect, and then it was done — they were joined, moving in synch, and Ron, though he'd done this countless times, felt completely new and entirely elated, as if he'd just been born. "Gods, I love you," he whispered huskily against her ear, and proceeded to chant her name distractedly as she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him that much deeper into herself.

"You're mine," Hermione murmured back, "and I'm yours."


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Ron awoke the next morning to a stirring sight: Hermione Granger, in his bed, wearing one of his old Auror Corps workout jerseys. She was leaning against a mountain of pillows and quite intently reading a book that she'd propped up against her thighs in the bright mid-morning light streaming into the room.

"Ah, I see you've discovered my bedtime reading," he said sleepily as he stretched and reached out to rest a hand on her knee, causing the bedsheets to fall away and reveal his bare chest to view, a sight that caused Hermione's cheeks to pink up.

"Mmm, rather heavy bedtime reading, it must be said," she replied after a moment's distraction. She flipped the giant book over to read the title again. "'Elemental Magic: Practices, Permutations and Philosophies.' It's fascinating stuff. I started from the beginning but I can see that you've dog-eared several pages."

He yawned and rubbed his hand through his hair and over his face, pulling himself up to sit next to her against the pillows while planting a small peck on her cheek. "Erm, yeah," he said, "this was recommended reading from none other than Fleur."

"Fleur? Your sister-in-law?"

Ron nodded and laughed. "She's not in the habit of assigning me reading, mind. It just came up the other day over dinner — while she was in the middle of one of her regular rants about how crap British wizarding schools are next to French ones. It blows her mind that we're not taught more about elemental magic."

"Well, seeing as I've not been taught much about magic of any sort, I can't say whether she's right or wrong," Hermione said with a grin.

"Oh, she's right about this, actually," Ron said, realizing that for days he'd been dying to talk with Hermione about this entire subject, something he'd been reading up on every night in bed for days but he'd been too distracted by the mission set for him by Hugh to have the opportunity. "I know I said once that elemental magic can't really be learnt from a book — and I still think there's some truth to that — but obviously Fleur disagreed with me and pointed me to a bunch of books on the subject. It honestly is quite amazing that they don't teach more about elemental magic at Hogwarts, but I think most British wizards think of it as a lot of voodoo nonsense."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't see why. I'm only two chapters in, of course, so I'm no expert, but it seems fairly obvious that there are animating forces at work in the universe, moving the planets, setting our paths."

Ron murmured his agreement. "My friend Luna Lovegood — you met her at the Hogshead, remember? — anyway, she's quite keen on this subject, too. She's always on about it — though she'd be the first to say that we all have freedom of choice. But still, she'll talk your ear off about how certain things are pre-ordained, and how you can tell, and on and on."

Hermione felt a tingle run up her spine as a delicious suspicion overtook her. "So, why did you and Fleur get into such an intense conversation over dinner about elemental magic of all things?"

Ron felt his ears heat up a bit at this question, and Hermione noticed, the tingling increasing as she sensed her happy suspicion was spot on. "Well, she certain ideas, most particularly about you and me, you see," Ron said, a small, crooked grin lifting a corner of his mouth. "The French are big on this stuff. Old magic and all that."

Hermione smothered the urge to bubble over into girlish giggles and instead managed to limit herself to a sly smile to match his.

"Give it here," Ron said, reaching for the book. Hermione handed it over and watched as he flipped it to one of the dog-eared pages further in. He stuffed a few more pillows behind his back and, propping the book on his lap, he gathered her in his left arm and pulled her close to his chest. She settled herself next to him and dropped a hand on his chest, toying with the few ginger hairs there until he snickered and said, "Oi, that tickles."

"Sorry," she said, though she kept right on doing what she'd been doing.

"I'm trying to think, woman," he said in mock annoyance. "Blimey, where was that passage again," he breathed absent-mindedly as he flipped through the book. "Ah, here it is."

Placing his thumb on the page, he noticed a little shudder run through Hermione. He tipped his head to see her better and said with a sheepish grin, "I reckon I might as well just say it: Fleur has a theory about you and me."

Hermione laughed openly then, unable to contain her mirth — or her curiosity – any longer. "I guessed as much," Hermione said. "She certainly hinted heavily at it when we met."

"Did she?" he whispered before he had a chance to stifle the urge, then he silently kicked himself for sounding so silly.

Hermione nodded. "You feel like a bit of a clot for even entertaining her notion, don't you?"

He chuckled softly and shrugged. "I did for a while, but then I started reading and … well … now I think she's on to something."

He directed his attention to the page, the better to quell the fluttering he was feeling in his heart — though he was aware that his ears had heated up by several more degrees, and he was finding it difficult not to smile like a nutter. He'd been eager to share this insight with her, but now that he'd had the opportunity to tell her about it, he prayed it didn't sound silly or self-indulgent.

"There's a lot of stuff in here I haven't sorted out yet from ancient times — the tales of Isis and Osiris, some stories from that old Greek bloke Plato, even some Rabbinical stuff that my old classmate Anthony Goldstein used to prattle on about. Anyway, it turns out that there is indeed a … well … an experience people have, and we've talked about it a little bit already, I think," he said, pushing himself to continue despite his sudden bout of embarrassment. "You've heard of _déjà vu_ probably, yeah?"

Hermione smiled and nodded, silently urging him to continue.

"Well," Ron said, "there's a similar thing folks who study elemental magic talk about — it's here on this page," and he took a moment to look and refresh his memory. " _Déjà vu_ is the feeling that you've seen or done something before, even though you know in your head that there's no way you could have seen it before, right?"

"Mmm hmm."

Her smiled warmed him and gave him the courage to continue. "Anyway," he said, "there's another phenomenon kind of like that, but it isn't talked about as much because, well, I guess it's much rarer than _déjà vu._ See here?" he said, pointing to the page, "it's called _déjà connaissance_. And uh, the literal translation isn't very helpful, I reckon, but there's a larger meaning the elemental magic texts talk about. The French also call it _une ombre de savoir_ , or something like "a shadow of knowledge" or somesuch. It might sound mental to you, but it's the feeling that you recognize someone, but not because you've seen them before. You recognize them from your _future_. They're someone who is going to be very important in your life going forward, and you feel it the moment you lay eyes on them. It comes over you sort of suddenly, and, erm, it draws you in, more or less, like you've been Accioed to that person, maybe, and you just have to know them even though you … oh bugger, even though you already sort of know them."

Recognizing someone from your future. Hermione couldn't help it — his halting description of a sensation that she had most definitely felt toward him at first sight, and which she had reason to believe he had felt toward her, was so adorable, it was making her toes curl. It took every bit of self-control she could muster to keep from flinging herself at him and covering his face with kisses, but her desire to hear more overruled that impulse for the time being. Instead, she found the presence of mind to ask, "So, is that the, um, is that the thunderbolt feeling you told me about?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

"Oh," she whispered. "And what — what does that mean? When you feel the thunderbolt?"

"Hmm," he said, closing the book and setting it beside him on the bed. "Well, it means a lot of things. I still have a ton of reading to do to sort it all out, but the most important piece, I reckon, is this." His voice trailed off, and she saw that he was looking away from her, watching his fingers trace the letters on the cover of the book.

"It means you've met your soulmate, you see," he said after a time, still looking away. "Or âme soeurs, as Fleur and other believers in old magic would put it. And, you know, a lot of people think finding your soulmate means you've found the person who completes you, but that's bollocks. You're already complete. Your soulmate, according to the old magic at least, is someone you have an ancient bond with, the person who helps you become your best self. Soulmates are rare, but if you find yours, that's the person you're meant to be with. If that makes any sense."

As she sat listening, Hermione felt her heart thudding in her chest, so moved was she by his words, by his tone. She leaned toward him and, reaching out with her free hand, she cupped his cheek, turning his face toward hers. A shy smile blossomed on his lips as he saw the look of wonderment on hers. "Everything you've said makes all the sense in the world to me," she murmured, and she tipped her face upward to kiss him gently.

Ron pivoted then, pinning Hermione beneath him in one swift motion, and as he pressed his lips to hers and tightened his arms around her back, she savored the feeling of being entirely surrounded by Ronald Weasley — her Ronald Weasley, the first and only man she had ever wanted in this way, and she sent up a silent prayer that the sense of belonging she felt now would always remain.

Ron, meanwhile, was overtaken by the same powerful feeling that seemed periodically to crash over him in waves whenever he was this close to Hermione, and he was beginning to wonder if it would ever cease: A tidal surge of elation, desire, a yearning to be one with her again and again. He could hardly believe how powerful it was, and yet it kept happening. Could she possibly feel the same? Judging by the way she surrendered to him so completely, so trustingly, he suspected that she might feel at least a fragment of the passion that so consumed him.

She answered his unspoken question in some small measure with a soft moan and with the movement of her little hands, which had slid down his broad, bare back and edged themselves beneath the waistband of his pyjama trousers, tentatively exploring the muscular curve of his bum. Soon she made to push his trousers aside, and he helped her, shimmying out of them and tossing them away. As he did so, she lifted his navy Auror Corps jersey up and over her head, revealing her naked form to his eye in the warm morning light.

He laid on his side next to her then, and the two of them stretched out facing one another, about a foot apart, and took time to explore the terrain of one another's bodies in a way they hadn't done the night before. Where he was ginger and fair and freckled, she was tan and caramel and creamy. Where he was large and lanky and bony, she was petite and delicate and compact. She ran her fingers over his arm and raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Battle scars," he answered, and she nodded sadly, leaning forward to drop a kiss on them before settling back to her side. He trailed a finger over her cheek, down her neck and to her breast, watching goosebumps rise on her flesh. He lightly grazed her nipple with the back of his index finger, and she inhaled sharply in response. "You're beautiful," he said, returning his gaze to her face, and an intense blush crept over her where the goosebumps had receded. "You don't see it, do you?"

She shook her head slightly, but before he could say anymore, she reached out and touched his forehead, running the pad of her finger over one ginger brow, then the other, sighing as she traced the angle of his cheekbone. Her touch continued downward, over his scruffy jawline and over the center of his neck. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed the lump in his throat, and her finger then touched on the divot at the base of his neck, then followed the line of his sternum and rolled ever downward until she reached his erection. "You're beautiful," she said softly, and he felt his ears heat up. "Stunning," she added as she touched the tip of him, and he drew in his breath and bit his lip as she took him in hand more firmly. He reached for her then and pulled her to him, swinging a leg over her hip and an arm under her head to encircle her in his grasp, and moaned in near helplessness when she answered the thrust of his tongue by sucking on it soundly. "Hermione," he breathed between kisses, "I want you always."

"And I want you," she answered, her breathing shallow and labored. "Only you, Ron."

He reached down and touched her then, drawing a long, shuddering sigh from her, and she buried her forehead into the valley between his neck and his shoulder as she let him stroke and caress her and whisper her name into her ear, deep and low, until she cried out against his skin, which was dewy from the rush of her breath. She pulled him to herself then, almost desperately, her need overriding her instinctive shyness, and she laid back, wanting to be covered by him, wanting to be possessed by him, wanting to belong to him. He obliged, positioning himself above her and pressing forward, his forehead angled against hers, crying out her name in a long, strangled wail as he thrust himself within her as far as he could go. He settled into her then, slowing down, withdrawing slightly and entering again before lifting his head to look into her eyes. "Stay here with me," he said pleadingly. "Don't go back. Stay here."

She understood the full extent of his request, and somewhere in the haze of desire she could hear the echo of her logical mind bringing up things like jobs and leases, contracts and expectations, but the noise of it was quickly cancelled out by the pull of his voice, the depth of his eyes.

"Be mine," he continued, his rhythm increasing ever so slightly. "I love you so. You belong with me."

She nodded. She knew it was true. There was no point denying it. She was sure what he was proposing would somehow work out, and she didn't care how just then, just that it would. It was right. He was right. She belonged with him.

He lowered himself over her then, resting the full weight of his body on top of her, and she marveled at how cozy and safe and inevitable it felt. He lowered his lip to her ear, continuing his entreaties, though she was already more than convinced. "I don't want to be apart anymore. I want to build my whole world around you. Stay. Please stay."

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— Your reviews make my day. Follows and Favorites are lovely, but there's nothing like a good old-fashioned review. I live for them. Please let me know what you think! In the meantime, thanks for reading and sharing this story with your Romione-loving friends._

 _Holly._

 _P.S. — I owe a shout-out to Ginger Lust, who pointed me toward a great French language resource that came in handy in this chapter. Cheers, Ginger!_


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

Staring up at the beamed ceiling above the bed, it took a few minutes for Hermione to catch her breath through a blissful, dewy-eyed grin. Ron had plopped onto his back next to her with a great heaving sigh and sunk his head deep into the pillows, and she meanwhile draped an arm lazily over her head and took a mental inventory. She was slightly sore in all the right places, though it wasn't an entirely unpleasant feeling, and one she was fairly certain would subside with time and experience. She was entirely relaxed in a way she never had sensed before — felt positively boneless, actually. But beyond any of these physical feelings there was the joy of reliving everything that had been said — and there had been quite a bit, to her surprise. After a time the memory of it all gave her the urge to roll over on her side, prop her head on her hand and look him over, the better to convince herself that it had all been real, that _he_ was real.

He raised his eyebrows in mild surprise when she popped up on her elbow above him, smiling down with her teeth biting into her lower lip. He smiled back — a different kind of smile, a mix of wonderment and not a little pride that, with her reddened cheeks, breathless grin and delightfully disheveled curls, she looked, quite frankly, well-shagged. Reaching up to capture a renegade lock of hair between his fingers, he asked, "How are you, then."

She let out a long, shaky sigh before answering "never better" through her smile. Then, seeing the corner of his mouth inch upward, she slapped his shoulder lightly and added, "though you don't have to look like the cat that got the cream about it."

An open-mouthed laugh burst forth from him then, knowing she'd sussed out his innermost thoughts, but he didn't care. Instead, he captured her in his arms and pulled her to him so that she was lying at an angle across his torso. "C'mere," he said huskily and, threading his hand through the hair at the nape of her neck, he kissed her soundly before pulling away slightly to angle his nose against hers. "If I'm going to be your only lover — and I mean to be, Miss Granger," he said in a deep, gruff voice as he placed soft kisses on her lips, her cheek, and her jaw, "then I'm determined to do it right. What's wrong with taking pride in a job well done?"

"I certainly can't argue with that logic," she said as she succumbed to his kisses, her free hand tracing his scruffy jawline. As he explored her mouth with his tongue, hummed against her lips and pulled her even closer to his chest, a thought drifted into her consciousness, starting innocently enough with the notion that no lover could be better for her than Ron. But another notion soon followed — a niggling worry over whether, given his history, she could possibly measure up to all the women who came before her. She didn't doubt his love, and she didn't doubt he enjoyed himself with her, but, well, it was hard not to ponder her obvious lack of expertise.

He sensed the cloud passing over her thoughts and pulled back, cupping her face in his hands. He searched her eyes, thinking perhaps he'd overstepped or said more than he should when he let it slip, even jokingly, that he wanted to be the first and last man who would ever know her in this way. He was about to apologize, to try to walk that statement back however awkwardly it must be done, when she broke into his thoughts.

"Are you," she asked tentatively. "Do I … I mean … oh, botheration. Nevermind."

"No," he said, his brow furrowing, "tell me."

She grumbled to herself, wishing she'd kept silent. She wanted to tell him it wasn't important, just her insecurities getting the better of her once again. But she knew any such statement would only pique his curiosity further. There was no choice but to press ahead and hope for the best, though it was difficult to find the right words.

She cleared her throat and willed herself to speak, and she winced when her voice came out sounding dry and creaky at first. "Have you had lots … erm, well … it's none of my business, really, but … how many …"

"Oh," Ron said at last, finally cottoning on to her meaning. "You want to know how many women there have been in my life, is that it?"

"I'm sorry," Hermione hurried to say. "Like I said, I realize it's none of my business—"

"It is absolutely every bit your business," Ron cut in, nudging her and rearranging the bedclothes until they were sitting upright next to each other, leaning against the mountain of pillows piled up behind them, with Hermione clutching the top sheet primly over her chest. "You can ask me anything you like about my past, love. I'm not proud of all of it, but I'll gladly tell you anything you want to know. I don't want us to have any secrets from one another — ever."

She smiled meekly and nodded, casting her eyes downward as her cheeks heated up maddeningly.

He couldn't help but grin at her expression. She was beyond adorable, clearly dying to have more information but uncertain of whether she was entitled to it — or if she would like what she might hear. If any other woman had broached this particular subject with him, he might consider it intrusive and bordering on big trouble, but with Hermione it was different. He _wanted_ to have a clean slate with her. If there was anything he'd learnt from his recent dealings with the Granger family and their past, it was how corrosive secrets can be. He was determined never to repeat that mistake.

Angling his face downward to catch her gaze, Ron said, "I've never done an actual count, so you might have to bear with me."

Hermione looked up at him then and laughed nervously. "Perhaps we should define our terms," she said, clasping her hands together and straightening up a bit. "Dating doesn't count. I'm just interested in … well, um … in actual physical contact, as it were."

Tipping his eyes upward toward the ceiling, he blew a puff of air through his lips so forcefully that it mussed his fringe. He laughed again then as he rubbed the back of his neck. "OK, well, I should repeat that I'm not proud of this, but …" And then he set about silently counting on his fingers, furrowing his brow occasionally as if trying hard to recollect events in the very distant past.

After a minute or so of this, she laughed heartily despite her nerves. "That many?"

"Hang on, I'm still working it out."

"Honestly!" she said, slapping at his shoulder lightly.

"Oi! I lost count," he said through a grin as he rubbed his shoulder melodramatically. "Now I'm going to have to start over."

"Oh for heaven's sake," she said, crossing her arms.

"OK, I think I've got it," he said. "So, if we're talking simply, um, _sexual contact_ as it were, then we're well past two dozen — approaching 30, to tell the truth."

He braced for her reaction and was a bit surprised to find that all she did was purse her lips and nod.

"And uh," he said slowly, "if we're talking _going all the way_ , then the exact tally, unless I'm forgetting someone, is 16. Oh wait, no. Seventeen."

After a long pause, Hermione said, "Hmm."

"Hmm," he replied.

"Seventeen."

"Yeah."

"Is that a lot?" she asked in a small voice.

He shrugged. "I don't know." After another long pause, he added, "I think it is, yeah."

"Does that count me?"

He groaned. "Oh bugger. No. So it's eighteen, actually," he said with a wince. "Now that I've toted it up, that does seem like a big number, doesn't it."

Hermione shifted, tucking the sheet more tightly around her bosom. _Eighteen_. A rather sizable number indeed. As her mind flashed on a memory of the bottle blondes at the Quidditch pitch and the women eyeing Ron in the corridors of the Ministry, her imagination reeled at the thought of how she might stack up versus seventeen other women, not to mention the many others who came and went along the way and those who undoubtedly were waiting in the wings. She was certain most of them had to be more experienced — and therefore more, erm, _skilled_ — than she was, and as she shuddered over the possibility of disappointing him over the long run or, worse, the prospect of his losing interest, he spoke again to fill the silence.

"I should note that most of these, uh, _relationships_ happened not long after the war," Ron said, and when she turned to look at him, she saw that his face had gone a bit pale. "I shouldn't make excuses for myself but, well, I'd never really had time for girls when I was at Hogwarts except for one brief fling." He shrugged and continued, fingering the sheet distractedly. "Right after the war—well, suddenly, birds were everywhere, or so it seemed, and they all wanted a piece of me. At first, I played along because, hell, why not … I was young and stupid and randy … and indulging in all that happened to be a convenient way to take my mind off things that I preferred not to think about back then. But the war had a way of catching up with me no matter how much I played the field."

Hearing this, Hermione reached for Ron's hand, and his surprise was evident, for he looked up at her, wide-eyed, almost as if he was relieved to find she was still there, and squeezed her hand firmly. Some men, she reckoned, might have strutted and preened over sharing such a tally. But Ron? He seemed quite sober and contrite about it, as if awaiting her judgment.

Before she had a chance to formulate a question — and it took some work, for she was quite speechless — Ron's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"For the last year or two, all of that slowed down for me, to the point where I barely dated at all," he said, pulling her hand toward his chest. "Friends took the mickey out of me for it, joked that I was all work and no play. But I dunno … I guess I slowly started to realize that all these girls I'd been dating weren't really all that interested in _me_ — the real me — they just liked the idea that they'd bagged a war hero, know what I mean?"

She nodded gently and gripped his hand more firmly.

"And, it sounds weird because I was surrounded by friends and could get a date anytime I wanted, but ... I dunno ... I started to wonder what the point of it all was," he added. "Friends were making real connections, getting engaged, settling down, and I was still searching, but I didn't know what for." He paused and lifted a hand to her cheek.

Then it was her turn to blink back tears. She could only sputter a whispered "oh, Ron" before he spoke again.

"You're worried that I might hold you up to those other girls in my mind, right?" he said, scanning her face as he traced her cheekbone with his fingertips. She made to shake her head but, oddly, was rendered motionless by the intensity of his gaze. "Well, the truth is, I do — I do compare them to you — and they can't hold a candle to you, Hermione. Not one of them can. Not that some of them weren't fine people on their own — they just weren't for me, and looking back on it, I'm angry with myself that I didn't take myself more seriously, that I wasn't choosier. I know that probably doesn't make any sense to you."

Hermione blinked again and pulled herself closer to him. "Ron, I'm sorry — I didn't mean to stir you up," she said quietly.

"It's OK," he answered quickly. "I don't mind. I honestly don't. My life's an open book to you, love. Like I said — anything you want to know, just ask. I'll do my damnedest to tell you the truth."

Hermione snuggled up next to him and placed her cheek on his shoulder. "I don't mind, you know. Your past is past. You are who you are. It doesn't matter."

He huffed. "That's bollocks and you know it, love," he muttered.

"No, honestly," she said, stretching an arm across his chest and pulling herself that much closer to him. "I wasn't asking because I was judging _you_. I was asking because I was judging _me_. Or rather, I worried that perhaps you might be judging me."

Ron straightened up, causing Hermione's cheek to slip rather unceremoniously from his shoulder and into the pillows. But he swiftly captured her face in his hands and urged her wordlessly to meet his gaze. "You were a virgin when we met, Hermione Granger, but as I see it, so was I, in a way," he said solemnly.

Her eyes darted across his face, a signal to him that she might think he'd gone temporarily mad. He smiled despite his annoyance at himself. Once again, she was adorable. Her hair was still wildly disheveled from their lovemaking. Her lips were still swollen from his kisses. Gods, she was lovely.

He read her question in her face — _What in the name of Merlin are you talking about?_ — and he pressed her cheeks more firmly in his grasp as he answered.

"OK, so, obviously I had sex before I met you," he said. "Quite obviously," he conceded with a guilty grin. Then, raking his eyes over her face once again, he gathered his thoughts. "But ... well ... there's having sex, Hermione, and then there's making love. Making love is different — at least for me. And I never made love 'til there was you."

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— Just a heaping helping of fluff for you — nothing more, nothing less. I couldn't help myself. These two sometimes inspire flights of fluffy fancy. If you're looking for a lot of plot here, I'm sorry to disappoint! That said, there are more developments ahead. Stay tuned. In the meantime, please review and share this story with friends._

 _Thanks again to chemrunner57 for the mathematical feedback. He'll know what I mean!_

 _Cheers,_

 _Holly._


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

"You heard me right, Mum, this is my telephone number now," Hermione said, trying and failing to keep her annoyance at bay.

A long silence followed. "I simply don't understand this, darling," her mother said, the slight quaver in her voice betraying her own annoyance. "And what about work? I can hardly believe you would resign from Sevenoaks."

"That's what I said, mother."

"But you worked so hard to get that position, Hermione. Why not take the summer and think about it? You shouldn't throw away your career on a whim like this."

Taking a deep breath, Hermione prayed for patience. "Mum, this isn't a whim. I've lived in the muggle world all my life. Now I want to dedicate myself to developing my magical abilities—"

"So you're going to cut yourself off from everything and everyone you know, is that it?" Eleanor said hurriedly.

Hermione sighed. "Mum, if I were cutting myself off from you, why would I be calling to give you my new telephone number?"

"You know what I mean."

"This is the third time we've talked about this in as many days, mother. It's not news anymore. It's very simple: I'm going to study magic one-on-one with a wonderful teacher. I'm going to live with Ron in Devonshire. That's that."

There was another long silence, and then a huffing sound. "I don't like it," Eleanor said in a small voice.

Hermione couldn't help but shake her head with a rueful smile. "I know you don't, Mum, and I'm sorry. I realize this is hard for you," she said with genuine pity in her voice. "But you promised you'd try to be more supportive. Dad's managed to do it," she said and, hearing her mother begin to balk at that, she hurried to add, "and yes it's easier for him. He doesn't have your history — I know, I know. But honestly, Mum, I'm trying to reclaim my life, to live my life as what I am — _everything_ that I am. I'm 25 years old. Can't you try to respect my choices?"

After another painful silence, Eleanor moaned and said, "You're right, darling — I promised to be more supportive and I haven't exactly kept my end of the bargain, have I. But it's bloody hard."

Hermione let out a laugh at this — the rare sound of her very proper mother cursing never failed to amuse Hermione, no matter the circumstance. And she could hardly disagree. There had been plenty of changes in all of their lives lately, and change was indeed hard. But as far as Hermione was concerned, they were all changes for the better. The only change she regretted, however fleetingly, was abandoning the sunny little flat she had so lovingly transformed over the previous few years.

A few days earlier, after Ron had Vanished the last of her boxes from the lounge, Hermione had stood in the kitchen entryway with her hands on her hips and looked around at the empty flat, its butter-colored walls and empty bookshelves the only reminder of the hard work she'd done to transform the space. "I'll miss this little place," she said with a sigh.

Ron, who had been standing by the mantelpiece, hummed his agreement. "It's been your home for a long time, hasn't it."

She nodded and they stepped toward one another, meeting in the center of the lounge and enveloping one another in a hug. Pressing her cheek against his chest, she murmured, "My Mum was so opposed to my living here."

Ron chuckled and rested his chin atop her head. "Really?"

"Yes. She couldn't understand why I'd want to pay to live a mile away from their house when I could have just lived with them for free."

Ron had wordlessly answered by pulling her tighter against him.

"Moving in here was a big step, though — sort of a declaration of independence," she continued. "I loved making it into a cozy little haven just for me."

Ron had smiled and kissed the top of her head. "I've got my reasons for thinking fondly of this place, too," he said through a grin, and she blushed and buried her face in his chest. "But hey," he added, pulling back and tucking a hand beneath her chin to lift her eyes to his. "You can make Vine Cottage into a cozy little haven just for us, now." A shy smile curled the corners of her mouth, and he bent to kiss her softly before pulling her into another tight hug. "There's nothing I'd like more than for you to help me make Vine Cottage a home — _our_ home," he whispered into her hair. "Besides," he added after a few moments, "I can't keep living in my bedroom forever" — causing Hermione to blurt out a laugh and slap him lightly on the shoulder.

She was still smiling at the memory when her mother's voice on the phone shook her from her thoughts.

"Oh, sorry Mum. Listen, Ron's parents want to meet you, and they've invited us all over to their place on Sunday next. I think if you meet them and get to see how they live, it'll help to put your mind to rest. They're lovely people, truly."

After another silence — not quite as long as the others, but still a bit beyond Hermione's comfort zone, her mother replied, "We'll be there, Hermione, and what's more, we'll try to keep an open mind," Eleanor said.

oooOOOooo

 _ **A/N**_ _— Apologies for the mini-mini-chapter! This is really just a bridge to get us to more action. I can't promise a fresh chapter will be coming super-soon. I leave for vacation in a few days and may not have much time to write. But please don't worry! I intend to finish this story. And I have also received some quite excellent ideas from none other than chemrunner57 on ways to get re-energized to finish "The Way We Will Be," so do stay tuned!_

 _In the meantime, please share your constructive feedback in the reviews section, and do share this story with your Romione-loving friends if you're so inclined. And enjoy your summer!_

 _xoxo,_

 _Holly._


	28. Chapter 28

Friends,

After months of deliberation, I am declaring both of my recent stories — "Fate or Fortune" and "The Way We Will Be" complete as of today. It so happens that both tales currently stand at a place where a writer could reasonably call them done. But the truth is, I've really lost the heart for writing these stories.

You see, while many of you have been so kind as to reach out to me with positive reviews as well as private words of encouragement, I have also recently received my fair share of nastygrams via FFN's private messaging. It's hard to tell who these people are — they're mostly anonymous — but they have let me know in no uncertain terms that they think very little of my work, and even less of me as a writer and a person.

I do this for fun. And being attacked isn't fun.

I'm not the most confident writer under the best of circumstances, but in light of this negative feedback — and the fact that my writings haven't seemed to connect with the broader Romione community in the way that other authors' works have — I find myself hopelessly deadlocked with a near-terminal case of writers block. I find myself constantly asking, "Will my critics think I am stealing this idea? Will readers be offended by this topic?"

So, I think it's best to hang it up. I'm proud of the works I have offered here, and I am glad some of you have enjoyed them.

I imagine some of my anonymous critics will repeat their claim that I'm a drama queen. It's sort of a can't win, innit? ;-)

Anyway, thanks to all of you who have been so supportive along the way — particularly chemrunner57, bless his heart — and look for me in the review section of some of your favorite Romione stories. I'm still a Romione fan, and I will always support the writers who are doing such wonderful work. If you're looking for a good, fresh Romione read, surf over to TMBlue. As I have said before, she is producing some of the most consistently wonderful work to be found anywhere in the Romioneverse. Her latest shortie, dubbed "Trace" on Tumblr, is a thing of true beauty.

All the best...

Holly.


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